Love the Stars
by KyrieofAccender
Summary: She was the light in his darkness, his savior from his horrible past, treacherous present, and uncertain future. He was her Angel of Music, her guardian, teacher, and shared a connection with her that no one else could. Novel length, complete!
1. Of Sopranos

**Summary:** She was the light in his darkness, his savior from the horrors of his past, his treacherous present, and his uncertain future. He was her Angel of Music, her guardian, her teacher, and had a connection to her that no one else could.

The title of this, "Love the Stars," was derived from a poem I plan on using later on. This will be much more original than "Angel of Music" was (hey, you've gotta start somewhere!) but with touches of ALW, Leroux, and real historical stuff thrown in, since that's just fun. Please enjoy!**  
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**Usual Disclaimer**: I'm only going to say this once: The characters, the setting, a good deal of the plot, the lyrics, and anything else you might recognize is not mine. Anything you don't recognize is mine. Like, say, the mistakes. Apologies in advance.

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Chapter One: Of Sopranos…

_10th August, 1881_

Christine Daaé walked into the grand foyer of the Palais Garnier, humming softly. It was a melody she was not very familiar with, but she knew she had heard it before. It was as though she had heard it in a dream…

She made her way to her dressing room to prepare for that day's rehearsal. It had always seemed slightly odd to her that, as one of the _petite rats_ of the ballet, she should have her own dressing room, but she did. And she was certainly not going to complain! She had spent several years in the communal dressing rooms for the dancers and she was thrilled at the chance for some privacy.

_Seven years_, she thought with a sigh. Christine had been working at the opera for eight years, ever since she was eleven. She had come at the encouragement of her foster mother, Mamma Valérius. Both of Christine's parents had passed away, and she had such a natural talent for music that it was almost inevitable that she had come to the Paris Opera. Her mother had been a fine singer, and her father, a highly renowned fiddler, had taught her to decipher the musical alphabet long before she could read. She was a natural performer.

She reached out and unlocked the door of her dressing room, setting the small bag she carried down on the table. Quickly, she changed into her ballet practice uniform – a tarlatan tutu that fell to her knees with a stiff, white linen bodice – and took her pointe shoes out of the bag, unwinding the ribbons.

"My Angel. It must have come from him." she mused aloud, still trying to discern where that strange melody had come from. The only logical explanation was that she had heard him singing in her dreams again.

A little over two years ago, when she had first been given this dressing room, she had begun to hear a soft, heavenly voice speak to her out of nowhere. He had offered to teach her to sing… and she accepted without question. She had been convinced that it was the Angel of Music her father had once promised to send to her. Now, however, she was not so sure. He was most certainly an angel… but was he a spiritual being, or one of flesh and blood? Whatever he was, he was certainly a guardian to Christine, and the hours that she spent with him – rather, with his voice – were the happiest of her life.

Once she had tied her toe shoe ribbons, she rolled up onto pointe and walked back and forth across the small room on her toes to make sure that she had tied the ribbons neither too loosely nor too tight. Satisfied, she tied up her hair and left her dressing room, still humming as she walked towards the stage.

Christine was immediately greeted by a shout from the other side of the stage. She stopped humming and looked up to see her friend Meg Giry, waving frantically at her. Christine grinned as she trotted over to Meg. The other girl was a few years younger than Christine herself, and they quite contradicted each other. Christine was shy and quiet, while Meg was outgoing and even slightly mischievous. They were roughly the same height, but Meg had long, straight blonde hair, whereas Christine's was dark brown and very curly. Despite these obvious differences, however, the two girls had become friends almost the moment they had met.

"Good morning, Christine." another voice said.

"Carlos, hello!" Meg said cheerily, greeting her other best friend.

Carlos Sanchez, another one of the dancers, came over to Christine and Meg. He was quite obviously Hispanic, in both his looks and his heavily accented French. Actually, he was quite good-looking – something that Christine and Meg enjoyed teasing him about. He was a very kind man in his early twenties, and very tolerant of the antics of his two teenaged female friends.

"Good morning, Carlos." Christine replied with a polite smile. "You were nearly late today."

"Yes, I know. It won't sound like a decent excuse, but I couldn't find my left shoe. I thought it better to risk being a few minutes late than facing your mother's wrath, Meg."

Madame Giry, Meg's mother, was the Opera's ballet mistress, and she was extremely strict. Both Meg and Christine winced at what might have happened had Carlos not been able to find his shoe.

"Well, I see you found it." Meg said with a laugh.

"Fortunately, I did. And I'm on time, as well!"

Their conversation was ended by the arrival of Madame Giry and Monsieur Reyer, the maestro.

"From the top, Madame?" Monsieur Reyer asked Madame Giry.

"Yes, monsieur. To your places everyone!" she cried suddenly, addressing her ballet corps. "I want to run the show before tonight's performance – and no complaining!"

She banged her heavy cane loudly on the floor, and everyone quickly scurried to their places for the top of the show.

As Christine waited in the wings for her cue, she began to think that this might be the last production in which she performed in the _corps de ballet_. One of the general chorus members had recently resigned, and Monsieur Lefèvre, the manager, was holding auditions the day after closing night. At first, Christine had been unsure whether or not to try out, but her Angel had insisted that she must. He was certain that she would be elevated if they could hear her sing, and that once she was in the chorus, she could work her way up to actual character roles. Christine was nervous, but she trusted her Angel completely. And so, the next Monday, she would be auditioning for the manager and the maestro…

"_Christine Daaé!_"

Oh dear. Lost in her thoughts, Christine had missed her cue. Again.

Nervously, she stepped out of the wings when Madame Giry's cane thudded against the ground again.

"Pay attention, girl! How do you expect to perform properly when your head is fixed in the clouds during rehearsal?"

"I'm sorry, Madame. I'll pay attention, I promise."

Madame Giry harrumphed and gave Christine a look that said she didn't quite believe it, but nodded and turned her attention back to those dancers who _hadn't_ missed the cue.

"From the top again, then."

Everyone groaned; there were cries of "Again?" and "_Christine!_" from the dancers. Christine turned red and looked down.

She was saved further humiliation by another thud from Madame Giry's cane. Still grumbling, the other dancers stalked off back to the wings, to await the cue again… this time with Christine paying _very_ close attention.

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A/N: This is a kind of "Christine-matures-a-LOT-through-the-first-few-chapters" kinda story. It just turned out that way. My brain does strange things sometimes...

A small historical note: I was originally going to set the story in 1875, but changed it because Christine would not have been able to be at the Opera long at all. The Palais Garnier (or, the Paris Opera House) was officially opened on 15th January, 1874. Before that, construction was interrupted by the Paris Commune, during which the (as of yet incomplete) Opera was used as a storehouse for provisions, ammunition... and prisoners. So, those of you who love the 2004 movie so much, know that the date they chose (1870) was physically impossible! I found that amusing... Anyway, I was going to do 1875 for my story at first because of a simple matter of costumes. I LOVE the costumes from the play, especially Christine's blue dress from act II. But those costumes are based more off the clothing worn from 1870-1876. (I was writing a Victorian era story at one point, in case you're wondering. And we're going to attempt to recreate Christine's blue dress for my Halloween costume. Yay!) I'm not all that fond of the clothes Leroux's Christine would have worn in 1881, and I have real trouble picturing her wearing them. Ah well. My imagination will stretch the truth for now.

A note on ballet: the description for Christine's ballet costume came straight from George Perry's brilliant "The Complete Phantom of the Opera" guidebook (which I suggest you all get. Preferably in hardcover, though.) I quote: "Their tutus were made of 12 metres of tarlatan, a kind of stiffened muslin, as were the original tutus of the Degas period. The layers of the skirt are edged with pinking scissors. The bodice is made of linen." It also goes on to say that each dancer used 12 pairs of pointe shoes in a month, which is RIDICULOUS when one considers that a pair of pointe shoes costs $85!

Right. Enough of my babble. Hope you liked it - please take a moment to tell me what you thought! It really does make my day. The next chapter of this (and "Angel of Music" too, probably) will be up soon. Thanks for reading! --Kyrie


	2. And Opera Ghosts

A/N: Thanks muchly to **Katherine Silverhair** and **angelofmusicx0** for their reviews! Thanks also to **Nedjmet** who, after reading my oneshot, "Interlude", told me that I should continue it. This is pretty much the continuation she asked for.

And now: introducing Erik and Madame Giry! Ta da! Hope you like it!

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Chapter Two: … And Opera Ghosts

_10th August, 1881_

Christine's Angel of Music shook his head as, from the shadows of Box Five on the grand tier, he watched his protégé blush and stare at the floor after a scolding from Adele Giry. He was unsure of which one he wanted to have a word with – Christine for being so dreadfully shy, or Adele for reprimanding his student. He decided that both would benefit from listening to him.

Christine especially. He knew exactly why she had missed her cue, and it worried him. She was so anxious about her upcoming audition. He knew that she would completely outshine her competition – if she allowed herself to. He had to come up with a way to bring the young woman out of her shell. It wasn't good for her career. Come to think of it, she wasn't benefiting much from it either.

He watched the rest of the rehearsal in his customary silence. Just as it was ending, he slipped out of his box and into the dark wings, waiting for the giggling ballet girls to pass before coming up behind Adele.

"Good afternoon, Adele."

The stoic ballet mistress could not help but jump slightly at his sudden appearance, but she quickly regained her composure.

"Why, Monsieur Erik." she said stiffly. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

He laughed dryly at Adele's strange sense of humour.

"I believe we have known each other long enough to dispense with such formalities, Adele. And I believe you know why I am here."

"You were watching the rehearsal again?"

"But of course."

"And I expect that you would like me to ignore the fact that Christine missed her cue because she was once again thinking of you?"

Erik was slightly taken aback by the thought that Christine might be thinking of him at all outside their lessons.

"You don't know that." he said gruffly, then cleared his throat and went on. "She is nervous, Adele. She is auditioning on Monday…"

"Many of my dancers audition for more prominent roles within the ballet, and yet they do not stare off into space and cost us rehearsal time. Are you asking that I not treat her just as I would any other?"

"No. I am asking you to be gentler, Adele."

"I cannot change my ways just for you, Monsieur Erik, and you know that!"

"Calm yourself, Adele. I will be speaking to Christine as well. She is far too timid for her own good."

"Erik, she is only a child still…"

"She is eighteen." he snapped, thinking that Adele had insulted Christine.

"That's not how I meant it, Erik. She has always been this way, as long as she has been a part of this company."

"All the same, I need to coax her out of it. She has the potential to do wonderful things…"

"And I suppose you are the one who will take her there? Have you even told her who you are?"

Erik did not answer.

"I thought not."

And with that, the ballet mistress turned and walked away. Scowling, Erik vanished into the shadows and made his way to the tunnels for Christine's lesson.

It wasn't as simple as Adele made it sound. Tell Christine who he was…? Did she have any idea how much he wanted to do just that? And yet he couldn't bring himself to do it. He did not want to frighten her. He was a phantom, after all…

In no time at all, he was standing behind the mirror in Christine's dressing room… the one he had instructed that she be given for exactly this purpose. He looked almost longingly at the back of the glass. It would be so _easy_ to simply push it open and step through… and yet…

"Christine?" he called softly. "Are you there?"

He saw her come out from behind the changing screen in the corner, wearing her everyday clothes. His breath caught at the sight of her smile…

"I am here, Angel." she said reverently.

She wasn't shy with him!

"Christine, before we begin our lesson, there is something I wish to discuss with you. I was watching the rehearsal this morning, and I could not help but notice how distracted you were."

"I… yes, I suppose I was…"

_No, Christine, don't be timid!_ he thought, but he did not say it.

"What was bothering you?" he asked kindly, hoping that she would not be afraid to tell him.

"I… I was thinking of the audition on Monday… Oh, Angel, I'm so nervous!"

Well, at least she admitted it. And, Erik couldn't help but smile at the way she seemed to cling to him…

"You needn't be, my dear." An idea suddenly struck him. "I know that you will do marvelously. Do you trust me?"

"Of course I trust you, Angel!" Christine cried fervently. Her face, however, fell. "It's myself I don't trust."

"Why, Christine? You have told me about your childhood – why are you so afraid to follow in your parents' footsteps?"

"I don't want to disappoint them! I don't want to disappoint _you_!"

Erik was slightly startled by this. Perhaps she did think about him more often than he'd thought…

"You could never disappoint me, Christine. You trust me, do you not?" She nodded. "Well, believe me when I say that you will do beautifully at that audition. Now, I believe we should begin…"

Throughout the lesson, Erik had to keep reminding himself why he couldn't show himself, why he could never show himself… It was better for her to hear him and not see him, so that she would not be terrified like all the rest…

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A/N: So, what did you think? Please take a moment to tell me! Next chapter should be up next weekend. Thanks for reading! --Kyrie


	3. The Audition

A/N: Hello again! Thanks a lot to **HDKingsbury**, **Kinetic Asparagus**, **angelofmusicx0**,** Indigo Spirit**, **LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath**, and my lab partner Tot for their reviews! Hope you guys like this chapter! Now, I would be blatantly lying if I said that this chapter isn't at all based off personal experience. It is - I've based Christine's audition a lot off of my own auditions and performances... except that I'm so used to it that I don't fret over it beforehand! I just get hyper about ten minutes before, and then the music starts, and voila! All is well. Right, enough blithering on my part. Enjoy!

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Chapter Three: The Audition

_15th August, 1881_

Christine sat near the back of the long line of potential chorus members, wringing her hands together. In truth, there were only some fifteen-odd others that she would be competing against, but still… To Christine, it seemed that each one was better than the next… far superior to herself…

Erik was, once again, watching from his usual spot. Unlike Christine, he was able to find at least some small fault with each person who auditioned. This one strained too hard to reach high notes, that one was far too heavy-handed with their vibrato… He knew already that Christine would easily surpass all of the others…

After what seemed a veritable eternity, Christine heard Monsieur Lefévre call her name. Trembling, she stepped up to center stage, waiting for Monsieur Reyer to assemble the music she had given him. When he looked over to her, she nodded that she was ready, although she had never felt less ready for something in her life. True, she and her Angel had spent an hour prior to the audition warming up and practicing, but even so… When the music started playing, however, her fears began to ebb away. The song was one that her Angel had written for her when they had first met two years previously. He had explained that he had once traveled to Italy, and had tried to write a song about it for some time. And now, it was as though she could hear him telling her that everything was all right… At last, when she opened her mouth to sing, the notes simply spilled out, not showing how nervous she had been in the slightest.

"_The light in the piazza…  
The light in the piazza…  
It's rushing up,  
It's pouring out,  
It's flying through the air!   
All through the air!  
Who knows what you call it?  
But it's there!  
It is there!_"

Christine's voice soared easily through the pitches that Erik had created for her. Even he was stunned – he had expected her to be wonderful, but she was surpassing even his highest expectations. She had a voice that would bring an angel to tears! Erik looked at Lefévre, the acting manager, duBois, Madame Giry, and Reyer, and saw that every single one looked absolutely shocked. He grinned, then returned to watching Christine._  
_"_All I see is, all I want is tearing from inside!  
I see it, now I see it everywhere! _

_It's everywhere!  
It's everything and everywhere!  
The light in the piazza…  
My love…_"

For a long moment, nothing happened after Christine finished. Then, they all suddenly started to applaud. Christine was rather taken aback – this was far more than the polite enthusiasm the others had gotten!

"Miss Daaé, that was… extraordinary! I don't think I have ever heard anything like it in all my days!" Lefévre cried, getting to his feet. "I do believe you are exactly the one for the job, don't you?" He looked round to Madame Giry, Reyer, and duBois, who all nodded their assent.

"Idiot." Erik snarled under his breath. "After a performance like that, she deserves far more than the chorus! You're wasting tremendous talent!" He would have to have a word with him about that. Erik would have his Opera House run properly.

Christine, however, was beaming, grinning from ear to ear. She could hardly believe what she had just done.

"Mam'selle, I was wondering… your song… I do not recognize it. What piece is it from?" Reyer asked suddenly.

Christine smiled.

"It isn't from another work, Monsieur. My teacher wrote it for me."

"Your voice teacher? Who is he?"

Erik froze at this mention of him. How was she going to explain this away…?

Christine's soft smile widened as she thought of all the stories her father had told her of the Angel of Music.

"He is an old family friend. You would not know his name."

"I see. How disappointing…"

"Well, Miss Daaé, allow me to congratulate you once again on an excellent performance. We shall see you tomorrow morning for the beginning of rehearsals for _Hannibal_, then. Good morning." Lefévre said with a smile.

Christine thanked them and, still smiling, left the theater and made her way back to her dressing room to collect her things… and see her teacher. She knew that only her Angel had ever made her happier than she was at that moment. She sang a made up, wordless song as she walked to the backstage hallways, performing a series of tight chaîné turns, still grinning wildly. She stopped at her dressing room door, dizzy from turning without bothering to spot and from overwhelming happiness.

"Oh, God, thank you for sending my Angel to me. Thank you so much…" she whispered as she turned the doorknob.

"Well done, Christine! Very, very well done!" her Angel said as she stepped into the room.

She hadn't known it was possible, but her spirits rose a little higher at his approval.

"Thank you, Angel." she said, smiling up at what seemed to be nothing, but then, when one was conversing with an Angel, it seemed only natural to look towards Heaven, did it not?

"Were you nervous? You did not sound it in the slightest."

"I was… until I heard the music start… Angel, it was wonderful! It was like all there was was the music, and nothing else mattered… And it was like I had you right there beside me, reassuring me.

Erik chuckled. It seemed that she was like him after all – most at home in the realm of Music. And the thought that she had wanted him there with her… He again imagined just how easy it would be to push open the mirror… and she was so happy, she might not be afraid of him… but no, he did not want to spoil it.

"Angel?" Christine asked, slightly alarmed by his silence.

"I am still here, Christine. I won't leave you."

Christine's smile returned to her face. Her Angel meant more to her than anyone else she knew. He was so kind, so gentle, and he had helped her so much… and his voice was the most wonderful thing she had ever heard.

"Congratulations, Christine. Although after a performance like that, you deserve far more than merely a place in the chorus…"

"Angel, there isn't a place for me anywhere else." Christine said, sounding surprised.

"Wait, Christine, they will soon realize what they have in you. Now, I suggest you go home for today. Have a rest – you deserve it. But take a moment to start familiarizing yourself with your libretto."

Christine closed her eyes, smiled softly, and sighed at his praise.

"Thank you, Angel, thank you for everything you have given me."

Christine collected her things and left, leaving Erik slightly confused behind her. What had he given her?

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A/N: Warning - long note coming up! I've got a lot to explain!

One: The song I used is the title song from the wonderful musical _The Light in the Piazza_, lyrics and music written by Adam Guettel. I don't know - maybe it's just me, but I could clearly picture Erik standing in an Italian piazza at sunset, and he's always struck me as rather poetic, so in went the song!

Two: Ballet terms time!

Châiné (pronounced shenn-_ay_) turns: defined on Wikipedia as "This is a common abbreviation for "tours chaînés déboulés", which is a series of quick turns on alternating feet with progression along a straight line or circle. In classical ballet it is done en pointe or demi-pointe (on the balls of the feet)."

Spotting: keeping one's head in the same position while turning. For instance, while doing châiné turns or pirouettes, a dancer keeps their eyes on one particular spot, say their face in the mirror or a loose chip of paint on the wall. The head is turned only when absolutely necessary, and then is whipped around quickly to look back at the same spot. It sounds complicated, but it really isn't, once you get the knack. It minimises dizziness so dancers can châiné across the whole stage or do the famous 32 fouettés from Swan Lake. If anybody has any questions regarding my explanation, please feel free to ask! I'll try and explain it to you as best I can.

Thanks for reading! --Kyrie


	4. A Problem in Voluminous Skirts

A/N: Awwww... there's a cat in my lap... Ack! Chippy! That TICKLES!

(coughs) Right then... Anyhoo, thanks to **HDKingsbury** and **Kinetic Asparagus** for their reviews! Ye be very much awesome! Now, as you can probably derive from the title, Carlotta appears on the scene in this chapter. I imagined her as an angry, sort of puffed-up hen in this scene... you'll see why. (I'll tell you that it was _immensely_ fun to write, though!) Was there anything else I wanted to say...? No, I don't think so... Enjoy!

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Chapter Four: A Problem in Voluminous Skirts

_19th August, 1881_

Three days after being appointed to the chorus, Christine walked onto the stage with a smile, her head held high, all notions of shyness or nervousness forgotten. When she had informed Meg and Carlos about her success at the audition, Meg had squeaked loudly and positively threw herself on top of Christine in happiness. Carlos had had to pry her off so as to allow Christine to breathe! Although she missed talking to them during her breaks, she found that the other members of the chorus welcomed her with open arms. It felt wonderful to be so accepted, and the shy demeanor that she had previously used as a barrier was beginning to fall away.

Erik could scarcely believe how much she had changed in such a short time. Only a few days ago, she had only been this free with the little Giry girl and that boy, Sanchez… and with him. But suddenly it was as though someone had pulled aside a heavy curtain to let the sun shine through the window. He watched her as she moved across the stage, each graceful step showing her time spent as a dancer, to her place beside the piano, smiling warmly, looking as though she was over the moon about being there. Something about her presence seemed to make the slightly gloomy theater a little brighter…

Suddenly, the doors burst open loudly and a large woman walked onto the stage. Her demeanor was so radically different from Christine's that it was almost laughable. She wore a very elaborate dress and a hat that was, quite frankly, ludicrous. Every movement she made was filled with a haughtiness so astounding that it was almost tangible. Beside her was a short, very stout man with a scrubby brown beard and a bowler hat. The woman was Carlotta Giudicelli, the Opera's prima donna. The man beside her, who could accurately be described as her lackey, was the leading tenor, Ubaldo Piangi. They had, oddly enough, been absent from the proceedings for the past few days. No doubt Carlotta had not wished to attend rehearsal and so hadn't, as she effectively had the management wrapped around her finger. She was quite famous, and she knew it; she also used it to her advantage as often as she could.

As she walked over towards the chairs grouped around the piano, she saw Christine sitting quietly in the seat at the end, flipping through her libretto and humming under her breath, and she suddenly puffed up and strode purposefully over to her.

Christine looked up as she approached, her smile fading when she saw the imposing older woman glaring down at her.

"Jou. Girl. Jou are in my seat." Carlotta snapped in a heavy Italian accent.

"I'm sorry. I was told to sit here when I started…"

"Dat is because _I_ was not 'ere when jou started. Now get up. Shoo!"

Christine blinked up at Carlotta in surprise at having just been told to 'shoo.' Carlotta, mistaking her astonishment for insolence, began to wallop Christine with her libretto. Shocked now, Christine threw up her arm to protect her face, getting as quickly as she could to her feet under the rain of blows. Fortunately, Reyer walked in at exactly that moment, and his exclamation allowed Christine to escape.

"Signora Giudicelli! Really!" he cried, sounding just as astonished as Christine felt.

"Dis girl is a cheeky little upstart. I want her out."

Suddenly, a loud, menacing voice echoed through the theater.

"_DO NOT TOUCH HER EVER AGAIN_." the voice commanded.

The group of singers, which had before been chatting amongst themselves or watching Christine's dilemma, suddenly fell silent and stared nervously around at the shadows around the edges of the theater.

"It's the Opera Ghost…" one woman said fearfully.

"N-nonsense." Reyer said, with as much conviction as he could muster, but it was clear that he did not think the Ghost nonsense in the slightest. "Signora, I am afraid that Mademoiselle Daaé cannot be dismissed. She will be a very valuable asset to our company."

Carlotta, fuming, sat down in the seat Christine had vacated, staring at her in contempt. Christine didn't notice. She alone was still scouring the shadows with her eyes. There was something in that voice that she recognized…

Erik did not notice her looking for him, as, unusually, his eyes were fixed on someone other than his protégé. White-hot fury coursed through him as he stared at Carlotta. How dare she assault Christine? He wished fervently that that harpy of a woman was further separated from Christine so that he could drop a sandbag on her…

All through the rehearsal, Carlotta found occasions to shoot Christine looks of extreme hatred. Christine simply ignored her, refusing to succumb to her old habits of staring at the floor and blushing. While Erik thought that she was handling the situation rather well, he sorely wished that she would have the chance to give 'La Carlotta' a run for her money. When Reyer dismissed the chorus and principals, he slipped out of Box Five and into the shadows…

Christine straightened her libretto and got to her feet, the smile she had worn when she had first entered the theater that day gone. She was making her way towards the door in the wings when Carlotta brushed past her, giving her another thwack on the arm with her libretto for good measure. Christine rubbed her arm and stared after the diva indignantly, longing to whack Carlotta with her own script.

A moment later, however, Carlotta screamed as a heavy sandbag dropped down from the flies to land inches away from her. Piangi rushed to her side, soothing her in Italian while Carlotta threw a thoroughly melodramatic fit of hysterics. Murmurs of "The Phantom!" rushed through the singers. Christine looked up towards where the sandbag had fallen from, and thought that she might have seen the swish of a black cloak in the gloomy darkness above her…

Meg ran up to Christine the moment her friend left the theater.

"What happened? I heard someone scream… Christine, are you all right? You look _awful_… What's going on in there?"

Meg had never seen her friend look that way before. She was paler than usual, as though she had been frightened, but she was frowning and her eyebrows were knitted together in distaste.

"The Ghost has been having his fun with Carlotta. He dropped a sandbag on her after she attacked me with her libretto for sitting in her seat." Christine replied crossly. Although she found it strange, she was really in no mood to speak with Meg. She didn't know whether she wanted to fume or burst into tears over what had happened at rehearsal that day, and feared that she might be closer to the latter. She did know that all she wanted to do was get to her dressing room and hear her Angel's voice.

"He dropped a sandbag because of you?" Meg asked, sounding incredulous.

"I never said that. I expect it's simply because he doesn't like Carlotta – I can understand why!"

"But Christine, it sounds awfully like he dropped it on your account… don't you agree that that's a little strange?"

"Yes, Meg. It would be strange. But I doubt it. I've never seen the Opera Ghost; I've never spoken to him. He doesn't know me." Christine sighed, suddenly exhausted, her agitation at Carlotta having completely drained her.

"Are you sure you're all right, Christine? You don't look well." Meg asked concernedly.

"I'm just tired, Meg. I'd like to go home. I'll see you tomorrow."

Meg nodded, and let Christine pass, staring after her friend with her eyebrows threatening to fly off her forehead. There was something decidedly fishy going on.

Erik watched Christine walk into her dressing room, looking thoroughly worn out. She sat down on the small, narrow couch in the back corner of the room, her back facing the mirror.

"Angel?" she called softly, casting her eyes hopefully towards Heaven once again. "Are you there?"

"I am here, Christine." Erik replied, throwing his voice to make it sound as though it were coming from above and in front of her. Christine didn't pick this up in the slightest; she only noticed that his voice sounding even more soft and gentle after the troublesome afternoon.

There was something in his voice that made her let go of her last ounce of composure, and angry tears began to fall. From behind her, through the mirror, Erik saw her shoulders tense, her small hands curl into fists in her lap.

"Christine… _mon ange_, are you all right?"

"I'm… fine…" Christine replied, wiping furiously at her eyes. "I've just had a… a very trying day. Oh, Angel, how could anyone be so _horrible_? Monsieur Reyer told me to sit there when I started with the chorus… and for Heaven's sake, it was only a chair! Why did she…?"

Christine lost control again, sobbing silently, feeling slightly ridiculous, but unable to help it. Erik was at a loss. He so wanted to step out through the mirror, take her in his arms and tell her that everything was all right. She was so strong, he had seen that, and yet so fragile… Still unable to show himself, he decided on the next best thing – he would sing for her. An old Welsh lullaby suddenly presented itself in his mind, and he began to sing it softly:

"_Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee,  
All through the night;  
Guardian angels God will send thee,  
All through the night;  
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping,  
Hill and vale in slumber sleeping,  
I my loving vigil keeping,  
All through the night_…"

When he finished, Christine had become very still, and Erik realized that she had fallen asleep. Unable to resist, he opened the mirror silently and stepped through.

She looked so peaceful, sleeping there so close to where he stood. So innocent, so… so beautiful… Tentatively, afraid to wake her, Erik brushed back a lock of her curly hair… touched her cheek gently…

There was a knock at the door suddenly, and the knob began turning. In a swish of black cloak, Erik was safe behind the mirror once more. He watched as Adele came in and surveyed the scene before her. She smiled, surprisingly, and chuckled something under her breath that sounded like "Oh, Erik." Gently, she woke Christine and helped her gather her things. Erik watched them in silence until they left, when he swept off towards his home deep beneath the Opera House.

As he walked, his thoughts turned to La Carlotta. The woman was a witch. It was her fault that Christine had been so upset. Carlotta and her completely inexcusable behavior. He planned on having a very, very strict word with the management about Signora Giudicelli. He would not have Christine treated that way. Not while he had a say in it. Not while he was the Opera Ghost.

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A/N: (points at conversation between Meg and Christine) Ah, I love the smell of dramatic irony in the morning! (And that, my friends, was proof that I actually did learn something in my freshman English class!)

Now, I'm afraid I must ask a very unusual question. I am desperately in need of help. Extremely so. I would be extraordinarily gratified if someone (preferably two someones, actually - the more opinions, the better!) who has read the entirety of "Angel of Music" to beta my second-to-last chapter for me. My friend Christine has decided to stop helping me exactly when I most needed her. She has read it through and told me that it's anticlimactic, but not how to make it better. And I've given the best I've got! Without another shove in the right direction, I'm stuck. So it would be really, really great if one or two of you guys could do me that HUUUUGE favor. And I would massively owe you...

Well, thanks for reading! Please review! --Kyrie


	5. A Ghost's Displeasure

A/N: Ah, Saturday afternoons. Updates for you, reviews for me! Woot. Thanks to **HDKingsbury** and **Kinetic Asparagus** for their faithful reviewing! And I promise to make this one more original, HD.

If anyone's worried that Christine's changing too quickly, I apologize. I also know that, in circumstances like this, people change _very_ quickly. It took me about a week in the fifth grade to learn that one cannot be shy around anyone teasing you. It just doesn't work. Well, enough of my blither. Enjoy!

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Chapter Five: A Ghost's Displeasure

_25th August, 1881_

After allowing Carlotta to affect her so badly as to bring her to tears, Christine avoided the older woman as much as possible. This was far easier said than done, however, as Carlotta was now attending all of the rehearsals and seemed to have made it her goal in life to make Christine miserable. Christine did not retaliate, nor did she cry again; rather, she regarded Carlotta's efforts with stony indifference. She refused to give Carlotta the satisfaction of knowing her harassments were achieving the desired effect.

It was nearly a week after Christine had first been confronted by Carlotta. Rehearsal had just started when Carlotta made her customary dramatic entrance, banging open the doors in the wings and bustling over to the rest of the singers. That day, however, instead of simply giving a dirty look that said "why are jou still 'ere," Carlotta came right up to Christine and grabbed her arm.

"What jou think jou're playing at, eh? Jou think jou can make a fool of me?"

"Pardon?" Christine said, her eyebrows rising in surprise.

"Now, Signora Giudicelli, enough is enough!" Reyer cried, although powerless to contradict Carlotta.

Carlotta, ignoring him, furiously brandished the envelope she had clutched in her other hand. When Christine showed no signs of recognizing it or understanding what she was getting at, Carlotta began shouting at her in Italian, and dragged her by the arm out of the theater.

"I'm sorry, Monsieur Reyer, I'll…" Christine called over her shoulder, trying to detach her arm from Carlotta's grip.

"Quiet, jou! We have things to discuss with the manager."

"But we haven't been excused!" Christine said, still trying to get her arm free.

"Ha! Dat does not matter."

"Maybe not to you! My position matters a good deal to me." Christine cried indignantly, slightly surprised by her own boldness.

Carlotta was surprised as well. She had expected the little chorus girl to come quietly, like a dog with its tail between its legs. Apparently, Christine had more in her than either of them had expected.

When they reached Lefévre's office, Carlotta did not bother to knock; instead, she merely shoved the door open. The manager looked very surprised to see the door open so suddenly, but when he saw Carlotta, he let out a sigh.

"Signora, what can I do for you? Ah, Mademoiselle Daaé, good afternoon."

"It is _not_ a good afternoon, Signor Manager." Carlotta said haughtily, even though Lefévre had been addressing Christine. "Dis girl has insulted me one too many times…"

"I've done nothing of the kind!" Christine cried, very confused. What on earth was going on?

"Signora, do explain what you mean." Lefévre said patiently.

"I 'ave received a note from the Ghost…"

Lefévre's face went white. Christine raised her eyebrows, surprised to see how afraid he was of the Phantom. _I wonder why_, she thought.

"A note from the Ghost… about _her_!" Carlotta finished, finally releasing Christine, but not before shoving her roughly forward.

"About me? That's ridiculous!" Christine said stiffly, although she remembered what Meg had said…

"Do jou dare to call me a liar?" Carlotta shouted, rounding on Christine.

"Signora, please! Show me the… the note."

Carlotta shoved the note under the manager's nose. He took it tentatively, as though afraid it might spontaneously combust. Christine watched, puzzled, as he carefully opened the envelope and warily unfolded the note inside. Did he expect something to spring out at him? To Christine's knowledge, the Opera Ghost simply liked playing the occasional trick on certain members of the company, occasionally giving suggestions to the management about how "his theater" should be run. What was so fearsome about that? He sounded more like a slightly mischievous patron than a horrible spectre.

Lefévre read the note once, twice, three times, his eyes flicking wildly back and forth across the paper, sometimes up to Christine or Carlotta. Finally, he lowered the note and looked straight at Christine.

"Miss Daaé, do you know what this note says?"

"No, monsieur." Christine replied politely.

He brandished the note, cleared his throat, and began to read:

"_Signora Giudicelli;_

_You are treading on thin ice. You are to leave Christine Daaé in peace, lest you stumble upon a terrible misfortune._

_O.G._"

Christine simply stared at Monsieur Lefévre when he finished reading the note. Had Meg been right? Was the Phantom angry with Carlotta because of her? It just didn't seem possible!

"Jou see! Dis girl is in with him! She is an 'elper to dis 'Ghost'!"

"I've never seen him! I don't know why he would take any interest in me!" Christine said, still completely astonished.

"But of course, jou will deny it." Carlotta said huffily.

"Monsieur, really, I don't understand this any more than…"

"Ha!" Carlotta cried triumphantly. She dove for something on Lefévre's desk and picked it up – it was another note, identical to the one Carlotta had received.

"What does dat one say, eh? I'll bet jou it is about dis Christine again!"

"Nonsense." Christine said firmly, although she wasn't so sure.

Opening this note with the same frightened look on his face, Lefévre read through this note once before reading it aloud:

"_Dear Lefévre;_

_I must insist that Carlotta Giudicelli be dismissed from your company. Aside from being seasons past her prime, she often torments other members of the company. If you do not comply, I shall be forced to take drastic action on behalf of those such as Miss Christine Daaé, whom Carlotta has taken to assaulting without any provocation whatsoever._

_I remain, monsieur, your obedient servant,_

_O.G._"

Christine looked truly shocked now. Why in God's name had this Phantom suddenly decided to back her? And why her? It just didn't make any sense!

Carlotta, however, had heard exactly what she had wanted to hear.

"Ha! Jou see? They are plotting against me! Dismiss me? Dis company would be a shambles without me!"

"Monsieur Lefévre, I really don't have any idea why the Phantom would send you these notes. He's never spoken to me. I've never seen him. Please, I have no idea what is going on here, I assure you!" Christine explained as calmly as she could, terrified that Carlotta might persuade him to fire _her_ instead.

"Of… of course not, Miss Daaé. I can quite see that."

"What! Jou are just going to let her get away with dis?" Carlotta cried, outraged.

"Just look at her, Signora, she's got no idea why this is happening. It is clear to me that she has no part in this." Lefévre looked faint, as though he were about to suffer a severe headache. "Now, ladies, I believe Monsieur Reyer will be missing you. Back off to rehearsal with both of you."

"Thank you, sir." Christine said with a polite smile, then turned and left the office.

Carlotta, however, was not finished with her.

"Jou think I will let you off on this, eh?" she hissed in Christine's face, grabbing her arm again.

Christine, who had had just about enough, shoved Carlotta away, frowning.

"Leave me alone! I've never done anything to you! And, even though I had _nothing_ to do with those notes, I would advise that you do what he says. From what I've heard, the Ghost can get very angry when his orders are ignored."

Christine turned away from Carlotta and made her way back towards the stage. She was almost there when a soft voice floated through the hallway towards her.

"_Brava, Christine!_"

"Angel?" she said quietly, looking around to find where the voice had come from, more out of habit than anything else. She had never seen him, and probably never would. It didn't matter – she would be content to merely listen to him for the rest of her life. She loved his voice.

"You did well, Christine. You must show Carlotta that you are not to be taken lightly. Very good."

"Thank you." Christine said, beaming at his praise. It had felt good, to finally give Carlotta what-for. But there was still the content of those notes…

"Angel? Why is the Opera Ghost so interested in me?" she asked.

Erik, standing in the shadows around the corner, froze. She mustn't know that he was not the Angel of Music, but the Phantom. She mustn't know why he had sent those notes, why he had started teaching her. At least, not yet.

"Angel?" Christine called again, troubled by the long pause.

"You had best get back to your rehearsal, Christine. Reyer will be missing you. I will see you afterwards."

"Yes, Angel." Christine said obediently, and returned to her rehearsal.

Reyer seemed immensely glad to see her return in one piece.

"I'm very sorry, monsieur. Carlotta…"

"Yes, yes, of course. I trust the matter was resolved?" Christine nodded. "Very good. We are on page fourteen in act five, Mam'selle."

Christine thanked him and sat down, turning her libretto to the proper page. But through the remainder of the rehearsal, she was preoccupied with something other than the opera. Why had the Phantom sent those notes? And why had her Angel refused to answer? Meg was right – there was something odd going on.


	6. The Music Lesson

A/N: Hello again! I know, I've already updated this weekend, but I've had a _massive_ brainstorm all of a sudden, and will probably churn out another two chapters just today! Thanks, HD, for telling me to have a more original plot. Which this will be. On that note, I've taken out the reference to _Hannibal_ in the last chapter - I'm going to change it. Sorry 'bout that, and if you've noticed any other references to it that I've missed, please let me know!

Thanks very, very much to **HDKingsbury**, **Kinetic Asparagus**, **Inkheart99**, and **Katherine Silverhair** for their lovely reviews! I promise, the action starts to pick up during this chapter. Sadly, I'm not very good at cliffhangers, since my experience with being an evil writer is usually leaving off mid-battle scene, or some such thing. So, lucky you, you won't have to suffer too much! Enjoy!

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Chapter Six: The Music Lesson

_27th August, 1881_

Christine slammed the door of her dressing room, furious. Carlotta had just insulted her in front of the entire company. Christine muttered the unfounded accusations under her breath as she paced violently back and forth through the small room.

"I can't believe it… I just can't believe what she thinks me capable of! That I persuaded Monsieur Lefévre to put me in the chorus by… _augh_! Will someone please tell me what I've done to deserve this?"

"Nothing, Christine." her Angel's voice floated across the dressing room, and her face instantly broke into a smile.

It did not last long, however. Christine continued her pacing, gesturing wildly.

"Oh, Angel, how can she be so cruel? I haven't done anything! And to accuse me of such… such… _appalling_ behavior…!"

Erik watched his angel as she moved angrily back and forth. He had never seen her like this. He supposed he had to thank Carlotta for one thing – it had been she who had thrust Christine's inner strength into the light, but still… The woman's attitude towards his protégé was completely inexcusable. It had taken every ounce of self-control he possessed not to murder the harpy on the spot after she had dealt Christine such a low blow.

"I am quite certain I do not know, Christine. You are right – her conduct is intolerable. I am sure something will be done."

"That's just the thing, Angel." Christine said with a sigh, sinking down onto the chair at her dressing table. "Everyone's so afraid that she will leave the company that they wouldn't dare help me. And who can blame them? They don't know me. They only know what rumors Carlotta's undoubtedly spread. I'm nothing to them, Angel."

Ah, so the doubt _was_ still there, then. Her anger was only another façade. He was almost positive that he alone knew who Christine truly was, all her hopes and dreams and darkest fears laid bare in her conversations with her Angel. Erik smiled when he thought of that; she trusted him explicitly.

And yet he couldn't trust her…

He shook himself out of his reverie; his angel needed him.

"You will soon prove that you are worth a great deal, Christine. Perhaps we should begin your lesson – it will take your mind off this afternoon."

"Of course, Angel." Christine said softly, smiling again.

He was right – they both forgot the tribulations of the afternoon as she began to sing. Her voice soared with ease over even the most difficult pitches… she truly was an angel…

Christine allowed the music to distract her completely; everything but the notes fell away… It was so strange, but she felt like it was another voice coming from her throat, not her own. Even if she looked at herself in the mirror as she was singing, it simply didn't seem like her voice; it was as if she didn't know herself any more. But she trusted her Angel more than she had ever trusted anyone. In a way, she even loved him… his voice was in so many of her dreams… she often fantasized about what his face might look like, what it might be like to really see him, to touch him… Christine wished she could really thank her Angel, perhaps give him a hug…

But she would never see him. He was an angel, and she was only human.

Suddenly, the exercises were over and it was time to prepare for _Le Nozze Di Figaro_. Christine waited for Erik to tell her which page to turn to so that they could begin, but he surprised her.

"I thought perhaps you might like to sing something else today, Christine. Something a little different… it's another piece I wrote. The music is there on your dressing table."

Christine turned and picked up the few sheets of manuscript paper that were sitting on the table. She hadn't noticed them there before, even though Erik had placed them there well before the lesson began… Silently, Christine read through the music for a few moments before looking up again and waiting for her Angel's signal. He sang her the first few notes, then let her go…

"_I peer through windows,  
Watch life go by,  
Dream of tomorrow,  
And wonder 'why'?_

_The past is holding me,  
Keeping life at bay,  
I wander lost in yesterday,  
Wanting to fly -  
But scared to try._

_But if someone like you  
Found someone like me,  
Then suddenly  
Nothing would ever be the same!_

_My heart would take wing,  
And I'd feel so alive -  
If someone like you  
Found me_!"

Had it not been her Angel's music, Christine would never have been able to sight-read it so well. But he never gave her more than a bar to start out with, and yet it was so easy… somehow, it was as though she knew the music before he ever gave her the notes…  
Erik listened to her sing his words with his hands pressed against the glass of the mirror. He cursed under his breath – he should have shown himself from the start. The longer he waited, the harder he was making it… But to hear her seraphic voice sing his words to him, to hear her express exactly the way he felt so clearly, so perfectly, without even knowing it… it was almost more than he could bear.   
"_So many secrets  
I've longed to share!  
All I have needed  
Is someone there,_

_To help me see a world  
I've never seen before -  
A love to open every door,  
To set me free,  
So I can soar_!"

Christine continued, unaware of the battles ensuing in her teacher's mind, just behind the mirror. As she started into the next verse, however, she did notice a soft sound from somewhere nearby… a sound like muffled crying… Her eyebrows rose in surprise and she stopped singing.

Erik cursed again, sure that he had distressed her. Hadn't he learned a long time ago not to let his emotions get the better of him? And yet, he couldn't keep back the tears when she sang his songs so flawlessly…

"Angel? Is that you? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Christine. Please, continue."

He gave her the next note, but did not stop singing. As Christine finished the song, he sang with her, their voices melding in perfect harmony.  
"_Oh, if someone like you  
Found someone like me,  
Then suddenly  
Nothing would ever be the same!_

_My heart would take wing,  
And I'd feel so alive -  
If someone like you  
Loved me_..._  
Loved me_..._  
Loved me_…!"

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"Meg, are you certain that we should be doing this?"

"You do want to see why Christine never comes with us after rehearsals, don't you? Come on, Carlos, this could be for her own good! Just imagine the sort of trouble a girl like her could get herself into…"

Meg and Carlos were walking down the hallway to Christine's dressing room, even though it was an hour and a half after that day's rehearsal and she wasn't likely to be there. It had been a _very_ long time since Christine had joined them after a rehearsal, and Meg was worried. In fact, she hadn't seen Christine outside of practice for nearly a week… and Meg could think of plenty of men in the theater alone who would easily take advantage of someone like Christine. She hadn't seen how much her friend had changed…

Carlos, although he shared Meg's concerns to a point, thought that she was overreacting a bit. Ambushing Christine in her dressing room – if she was even there – didn't seem like the best way to go about things to him. He'd told Meg to just talk to her, pull her aside before she rushed off to wherever it was that she went, but Meg had dismissed that quickly. Christine disappeared too easily, it seemed.

"I know, Meg, but still…"

Carlos broke off suddenly, and both he and Meg stopped walking. A voice floated down the hallway towards them, a light, crystal-clear soprano. The voice glided easily over notes both high and low… they had never heard anything like it in their lives.

"_Jesú Christo_…" Carlos whispered. "Meg… do you think… that can't be… Christine?"

Meg shook her head, a look of disbelief on her face.

"No… no, it can't possibly be… I've heard Christine sing, and… and it's not at all like that…But then, who else could it be? Everyone else has gone home…"

Suddenly, the voice fell silent, to be replaced by another.

"Excellent, Christine. That was superb."

Meg's eyes widened, and she gave Carlos an I-told-you-so look. It was a man's voice.

"Who in the world could _that_ be?" she asked quietly.

Carlos shook his head; he only hoped that Meg was wrong and Christine hadn't gotten herself into any trouble…

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A/N: Ok, stuff to talk about! First off, the song I used was "Someone Like You" from Frank Wildhorn's and Leslie Bricusse's _Jekyll & Hyde_. Brilliant show - my high school did it two years ago. I was scrounging around on my iTunes playlist, looking for a song to put there. "The Prayer" immediately came to mind, but I thought "Darn, that's religious. I doubt Erik would have written something like that. Bother." And so I found this one... and it seemed to fit Erik's predicament perfectly! So, you know me - in it went.

Second thing - _Le Nozze Di Figaro _(The Marriage of Figaro) is a comic opera by Mozart, written in 1784, and it is apparently the sixth most performed opera in the world. For those of you who don't know much about comic opera, they all have a pretty similar plot - everyone's in love with everyone else, and jealousy, silliness, and general chaos ensues, and, of course, ending happily. _Le Nozze Di Figaro_ is actually a sequel to _The Barber of Seville_, from whence comes a great many of the problems that Figaro runs into on his wedding day. The opera is also sometimes called _La Folle Giornata_ - The Crazy Day.

Thanks for reading! --Kyrie


	7. Confessions and Unexpected Appearances

A/N: Chapter six is feeling rather review-neglected... sniff... Thanks to **Kinetic Asparagus** for her review; also to my friends Talin (tot) and Erin (EMP) for their reviews. Especially Erin, because she sent me the longest review I've ever gotten. And ever hope to get. Tee hee...

The action starts to pick up in this chapter. I've also tried to put in more of the detail that you guys were asking me for - I hope I didn't overdo it, because I've used the same technique in several other chapters!

Enter, Raoul! Don't worry - he plays a rather minimal part in this story. Well, enjoy!

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Chapter 7: Confessions and Unexpected Appearances

_2nd September 1881_

Christine made her way back to her dressing room after rehearsal to collect her things and return home. As opening night was the next day, her Angel had told her to go home and get some sleep instead of their usual lesson. Before she could open the door of the little room, however, Meg and Carlos appeared at her side.

"Hello, Christine." Carlos said cheerily. A bit too cheerily.

Christine turned to look at her two friends and raised an eyebrow; they both wore overly silly grins.

"What are you two up to?" she asked suspiciously.

Meg's grin melted instantly.

"It's not really a question of what _we're_ up to, so much as what _you're_ up to."

"What are you talking about?"

"Where do you go after rehearsal every evening, Christine?"

"Here."

"Why do you stay here for hours before you go home?"

"Meg, what on earth…"

"Christine, we're only concerned for your safety." Carlos interrupted. "Last night, we… came looking for you. Around nine o'clock."

Christine paled. Her lesson with her angel hadn't ended until nine thirty at least…

"Why?"

"We don't want you to get hurt, that's all." Carlos said with a smile.

"Who was that voice, Christine? The man's voice? What was he doing in your dressing room – alone with you, I presume."

Christine frowned.

"There's really no need to spy on me, Meg. You could have just asked what I did after rehearsals."

"I doubt you would have told me the truth if there was something wrong." Meg said quietly, and, had that been the case, she would have been right. But nothing was wrong… she just couldn't talk about her Angel to anyone. She'd promised not to.

"There's nothing wrong, Meg, really there isn't. You needn't worry; neither of you need worry. I'm fine, really…"

"Christine, I don't believe you! There's something you're not telling me – I know when you're lying! You aren't very good at it, _mon amie_."

"She's right, Christine." Carlos added tentatively.

"Whose was the voice, Christine?"

"There wasn't anyone else in my dressing room last night." Christine said stubbornly, and, essentially, it was the truth. No one else had been _physically_ in the room.

"Both of us heard a man's voice, and it was coming from in there." Carlos jerked his head towards the door of Christine's dressing room.

Christine sighed, defeated.

"Come in here."

"No you don't!" Meg snapped, trying to slap Christine's hand away from the knob. "He's waiting in there for you, isn't he?"

Christine laughed and shook her head.

"There's really no one in there, Meg. You really have quite an imagination…"

Christine opened the door and ushered her two friends inside, shutting the door behind them.

"I'm sorry, Angel…" she said softly, looking skyward again. Meg heard her.

"Angel? What?"

"When I was a child, my father used to love to tell me stories. Every night, and whenever I asked for one. And in every one, there was a part about the Angel of Music. He used to tell me 'When I am in Heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you.' That's who you both heard last night. He is my teacher, my angel. So there was really no one in the room aside from me, Meg. And even if he were here, he would never hurt me." Christine smiled at her two friends' disbelieving expressions.

"And you say I'm the one with the imagination!" Meg cried. "No, really, Christine, what's going on in here?"

Christine blinked a few times, startled. Meg didn't believe her…?

"I… told you the truth, Meg, Carlos, I… I really did."

"It is a bit… far-fetched, Christine. Just because your father told you stories when you were little doesn't mean that it's come true." Carlos added.

"Have you ever considered that it's someone impersonating this Angel?" Meg asked suddenly.

"No! He's an Angel, I know it. Perhaps he isn't really a spiritual being, but he's my Angel of Music, whichever way you look at it. He would never do anything to harm me! He's taught me so much…"

"Christine, you can't really think…"

"Yes, I can, Meg! I can, and I do! I don't care what you say about him – you don't know him! I do. He's been teaching me for two years now, and has never given me cause to doubt him. And, since he's told me to get some rest tonight, that is precisely what I'm going to do. I'll see you at rehearsal tomorrow."

And with that, Christine turned and left her dressing room, fuming. Why didn't they believe her? She had been telling them the truth!

She was so angry that she walked straight into the man before she saw him.

"Please, excuse me, monsieur…"

"Terribly sorry, mademoiselle, I didn't see you…"

Christine's eyes suddenly widened, and it was all she could do not to let her mouth drop open. For a few seconds she simply stared up at the well-dressed man in front of her.

"Raoul? Raoul, is that really you?"

The man gave her a sideways glance, as though trying to remember her.

"Do I… know you, mademoiselle?"

"It's me. Christine… Little Lotte, remember?"

A look of sudden, dawning recognition spread across the young Vicomte's face.

"Christine? Is that… My God, I don't believe it." Raoul said incredulously, but there wasn't a shadow of a doubt in his mind that he'd – quite literally – stumbled upon his childhood best friend.

"Raoul, I hardly recognize you." Christine said with a laugh, and it was true. She had to look up about six inches to meet his eyes now, and his face had long since grown from the boyish charm she remembered to that of a handsome young man.

"Me? Christine, you're the one who's changed so much!" The slightly gawkish little girl that Raoul once knew was gone, leaving in her place a stunningly pretty young woman. Had Raoul been completely honest with himself, he would have admitted that Christine's bright smile was slightly disarming.

"You work here now?" he asked her, mostly to stop himself from staring.

"Here?" Christine said, gesturing at the hallway that led to various offices. "No, of course not. Come on, I'll show you…"

Christine grabbed his hand and pulled him through the winding corridors of the opera to the wings, feeling for a moment almost as though she were six years old again.

"I work _here_." Christine said, pulling Raoul through the dark wings and onto the deserted stage.

The theater was silent, empty except for two maids cleaning the grand tier for the gala performance the next night. The only light in the vast auditorium came from the glittering chandelier far above their heads. Dust filtered down through the soft beams of light cast by the chandelier; it was almost as though soft sunlight was pouring in. Directly above them, the flies were shrouded in grey shadows; cables and backdrops hung patiently waiting for the performance. In the echoing silence of the theater, it was as though there was still a soft, nearly inaudible music that played, that was always a part of the theater itself, in the very walls and red velvet seats and floorboards.

"There's just something about an empty theater…" Christine said in a hushed voice. "I used to come here a lot when I was younger, just to sit alone and think… Perhaps it sounds silly, but…"

"No, it doesn't sound silly at all." Raoul said in the same quiet tone. He had never seen an auditorium from this angle, and it was rather fascinating. "Christine, I'm so glad to have stumbled across you again… it's been such a long time…" he said suddenly, turning to look at her. "Perhaps you would like to join me for dinner; we could fill in the past twelve years."

Christine smiled apologetically.

"I'd love to, Raoul, but I can't. Opening night is tomorrow – my teacher has instructed that I go straight home and get some rest."

"Your teacher? You mean, your voice teacher? Who is he?"

Christine hesitated. Telling Carlos and Meg had been one thing, but telling this man who was practically a stranger to her now was entirely another. But she couldn't tell him that her Angel was an old family friend as she had Monsieur Reyer; he knew her family friends. And he had heard her father's stories of the Angel of Music all those years ago… now that her two best friends hadn't believed her, she was desperate for _someone_ to understand.

"Raoul… I… I really shouldn't be telling you this, but… Do you remember what my father always used to say about the Angel of Music? How he would send him to me one day?"

"Yes, of course."

"The Angel is teaching me, Raoul. He's so kind, and such a wonderful teacher…"

Christine trailed off, and Raoul could tell in the way her eyes lit up when she spoke of him that she cared a great deal more for this 'Angel' than she was letting on. He smiled gently at her.

"I'm sure he would be."

"You believe me?"

"What reason do I have to doubt you?"

"Thank you, Raoul… it really was lovely seeing you again… but, well, I really must get home…"

"Of course, Christine. I look forward to watching the performance tomorrow evening." he said with a smile.

Christine returned the smile and headed back into the wings. Raoul chuckled quietly to himself and, after another quick look around the silent theater, followed her out.

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Ropes and backdrops were not the only things in the flies above Christine and Raoul's heads. Balancing in a position that would have been precarious to any other man on a catwalk just above them was Erik, and he frowned down on his protégé and her long lost childhood playmate.

His first reaction to the boy's appearance had been anger. How dare this impetuous lad strut into his angel's life? Christine belonged to him. Erik nearly alarmed himself with the sudden possessiveness that welled up like fire in him. He had never had cause for it before – Christine had never been alone in the company of another man. Not even her friend in the ballet, the Sanchez boy – Meg Giry was always present at the same time.

A few moments into their conversation, however, and his fury began to ebb away to something much more alarming – fear. What if Christine did actually choose the boy? What if she forgot her Angel entirely and turned to the boy instead? And then Christine began to speak of him; Erik's blood ran cold. How could she toss him about so lightly? But perhaps it had only been to prevent another scene like her two ballet friends had caused earlier… Christine had been right – Meg did have quite the overactive imagination if she thought he would ever lay a hand on his angel.

Suddenly, he noticed Christine's tone of voice as she spoke of him, and his heart rose for a moment… only to crash down again a moment later. _He's so kind, and such a wonderful teacher_… In that instant, he knew that that was all Christine would ever see him as. Her teacher. He could never hope that she might one day come to love him…

Erik stayed until Christine left the stage, and then he slid into the darkness of the wings and made his way back to his home in the Opera cellars. He was unable to write even a single note of music that night.

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AN: So, what did you think? Please let me know! One simple action from you - pushing that little purplish-blue review button there - really does make my day. (I am now going to pull the oh-pity-me stunt. Sorry) I've felt very lonely recently with so few reviews (I talk to Erin and Talin on a daily basis... lovely as they are, their reviews somehow aren't as neat because they really could just tell me the next day at lunch or in art class. Sorry guys.) Especially since reviews are very nearly the only email I ever get... I know. I'm soooo pitiful.

Yeah, just kidding. Not about the reviews though. Please leave me one and let me know how I'm doing! Thanks for reading! --Kyrie


	8. Trouble in the Tuileries

A/N: Hello, all! Here's that next chapter I promised you for this weekend. Since I doubt I'll have _any_ spare time this weekend, you get it now. Yay, Fridays!

Thanks very, very much to **Kinetic Asparagus**, **HDKingsbury**, and **pony210** for answering my plea and sending me a review! I hope you guys like this chapter - this is where the action picks up and things really start happening! Sorry about the possibly cheesy alliteration in the chapter title... if it sounds too "Magic Tree House"-ish, tell me and I'll change it. Well, enjoy!

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Chapter Eight: Trouble in the Tuileries

_2nd September 1881_

Fortunately, Christine managed to hold back her yawn until after the curtain fell. Even though it was only nine thirty, and she had followed her Angel's advice and gone to bed early the night before, the performance had been thoroughly draining. As the principals made their curtain calls and the rest of the company milled about in the wings and filtered towards dressing rooms, Christine yawned widely again, covering it with her hand.

"So… what now, Christine?" Meg said suddenly from behind her.

Christine jumped, surprised, then turned to face her friend.

"I'm going home, Meg." she said, sounding sleepy. "I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted."

"What about… the 'angel'?"

Christine frowned.

"He doesn't want me to strain my voice, and as I have been singing nearly all day, he has told me that he will not give me a lesson this evening." she said shortly. "Good night, Meg."

Christine turned away and began to leave, but Meg grabbed her shoulder.

"Christine, I'm… really sorry. It's just… you're so…"

"Innocent?" Christine said, a smile finally appearing on her face. "Thank you for your concern, Meg, but really, I'm fine."

Christine smiled again and made her way back to her dressing room to change out of her costume and grab her things.

"Brava, Christine!" her Angel said as she shut the door behind her. Christine's smile widened considerably.

"Thank you, Angel. I… I never would be able to do this without you. Thank you so much."

Despite what he had heard the night before, Erik's spirits rose significantly when he heard her say that, saw the look on her face as she spoke to him… she looked so _happy_…

"You were brilliant this evening, Christine. But you look tired; get some sleep. Tomorrow night will be even more exhausting."

"Of course, Angel. Good night."

After a moment when he did not say anything, Christine assumed he had gone. Smiling and humming the song he had taught her the day before, Christine changed back into her street clothes and put her libretto back into her bag. She then turned out the gas lamp above her dressing table and left the little room, locking the door behind her.

Although it was late, she was tired, and her apartment was, rather inconveniently, across the Seine from the opera, it was a lovely evening, and Christine felt like walking. It would also save her the cab fare – when one was on a meager opera singer's salary, one tended to walk more often than not. The moon was almost full, and it wasn't dark at all. And so Christine left the grand foyer of the Palais Garnier and made her way down the Avenue de l'Opera.

Erik had followed her out of her dressing room, as he was occasionally wont to do. He was extremely surprised when he saw her walk straight from the steps of the opera to the street without bothering to hail a brougham. Did she intend to walk all the way back to her flat in the dark? As she continued down the Avenue, however, Erik realized that she planned to do just that. Without even pausing to think, he gathered his cloak tighter around his shoulders, slipped into the shadows of the Opera and began to follow his protégé home.

Christine turned right at the end of the long Avenue and made her way into the Jardin des Tuileries, as cutting through the park was the fastest route home. Besides, she had always found the soft, lush, green landscape relaxing. Even in the dark, the enormous park was beautiful. Her feet crunched slightly on the worn gravel pathways, and the wind whistled through the trees and bushes, although it sounded more melodic than menacing. Although the sky was nearly black, the moon and stars were bright and Christine could see very well.

Suddenly, there was another crunch of gravel behind her. Christine stopped and turned to look behind her, and saw a very thin man, who was perhaps only a year or two older than her, start and leap behind a bush. Nervously, she pulled the straps of her bag higher on her shoulder and continued down the path, listening for more footfalls behind her.

She didn't hear anything else, but instead felt a hand reach out and grab her bag. Christine whirled around, holding tightly onto the bag, to find herself face-to-face with the man who had jumped behind the bush. His hair was unkempt, his clothes ratty, and his hot breath on her face reeked of alcohol. Without thinking, Christine stomped on his foot, yanked her bag out of his grip, and ran.

Only a short way down the path, however, she began to slow involuntarily, gasping for breath. Although she could hear the man catching up, she couldn't run any faster – for all her years as a dancer, she wasn't a very fast runner, and her corset hindered her considerably. Unexpectedly, she felt a hand fist in her hair and yank backwards. Caught completely unaware, Christine fell backwards with a yelp, hitting her head hard on the ground. Everything went black…

Erik, following about thirty yards behind – on the grass, so as not to be heard – saw the thief grab Christine's bag the first time and sped up. When he saw the scoundrel chase after her, he began to run as well, cursing when he was too late to prevent her from falling and horrified when she did not get up.

The thief picked up the woman's bag and was about to run off when suddenly there was a hand grabbing his shirt collar and almost lifting him off the ground. His eyes widened in terror and he dropped the bag when he saw the furious masked man who had him in a deathgrip.

Erik's first thought was to snap the man's neck, but he wasn't sure if there was anyone else around, and he had more pressing matters to attend to at the moment. He had to make sure Christine was all right…

"If you ever touch her again, you will wish you were never born." Erik snarled quietly. It might have been an empty threat, but it had the desired effect.

The man could only stare in helpless horror at him, and Erik threw him roughly aside. He landed in a bush, but didn't stay there for long. He disentangled himself from the sharp, scratching branches and ran as fast as his legs could carry him in the other direction.

Erik didn't wait to see him run off; he immediately dropped to his knees beside Christine and pulled her limp form gently into his arms. He was relieved beyond words when he saw that she was still breathing.

But what to do now? He couldn't very well wait here for her to wake up, and he couldn't carry her all the way to her flat… He would have to take her back to the opera.

_That meant she would see him…_

It didn't matter. He couldn't _leave_ her there, and he couldn't take her to her own home. So he would have to take the chance and bring her home with _him_. There were no two ways about it.

Gently, he wrapped one arm around Christine's shoulders while the other hooked under her knees and balanced her bag between the two of them. Looking around to see if anyone else was nearby – no one was; the park seemed nearly deserted – he got to his feet, lifting her easily. Her head lolled against his chest as he stepped off the path and quickly exited the Tuileries, making for the Rue de la Paix, a more direct route to the opera. He found it much more difficult to blend with the shadows when he was carrying Christine – whether it was because he now occupied more space or because the fabric of her dress was much brighter than his black cloak and dress clothes, he didn't know or much care. He just wanted to get his angel off the streets as quickly as possible…

At last, he reached his secret entrance into his home on the Rue Scribe, and, although it was difficult to work the mechanism of the door with Christine in his arms, plunged into the welcoming darkness of his underground home. Five stories below the ground, he opened another door and stepped into the house on the lake, as he occasionally called it. He made his way down the long hallway in the pitch darkness, unable to light the gas lamps while carrying Christine, but the gloom was no hindrance to him. The door he was looking for was already open slightly, and he pushed it open fully with his foot. He put Christine gently down on the bed at the other end of the dark room, then lit one of the small wall lamps.

Erik looked back at Christine, lying there on the bed, in his house, in the room he had dared hope that she might stay in one day… Tentatively, he picked up her bag and put it on the little desk in the corner, and, more uncertainly still, eased her shoes off her feet and placed them on the floor. It was so… so _odd_, to have her so close to him after all this time… Just the thought that he could reach out and touch her made his breath catch in his throat… And he did; he tenderly brushed his fingers across her cheek.

He shook his head suddenly, pulling his hand away. He shouldn't stay here… Gently, he pulled a blanket over his student and tucked it around her shoulders, then stepped back to the door.

"_Bonne nuit, mon ange_…" he whispered, then left the room, shutting the door with a soft click behind him.

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A/N: If any of you were ever to go to Paris, you could really follow the routes I've described from the Tuileries to the Opera House. Google Maps is a wonderful thing.

And now for... more shameless advertising!!! Yay!!! I've recently posted a two-shot called "The Final Threshold". It was originally two chapters towards the end of this story, but I've changed the plot of this one completely since then and they didn't fit anymore. I liked them a lot though, and thought they had mettle enough to stand on their own. (Christine agreed with me - she actually approved the ending! Gasp!) So, if you've got a spare moment, you can go take a look at that (Or any of my other stories; "Interlude", "Gandalf's Fireworks", or "Angel of Music".) and preferably leave me a review. You know how much I like reviews!

Thanks for reading! --Kyrie


	9. Beneath the Opera House

A/N: Whoa... Sorry I missed my update last week! This chapter was, to put it lightly, bloody hard to write. The characterization didn't like me... or rather, I hated it, and so it decided to hate me back. Christine was being far too passive... far too... cardboard-cutout-ish. Which is bad. I really hope I've fixed it! My lovely betas say I have... yay betas. Although I still dread giving Christine endings...

Ahem. Thanks very much to **Kinetic Asparagus**, **HDKingsbury**, **LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath** and **marissaisgod **for their lovely reviews. Yay, reviews! Well, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I do apologize for the wait.

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Chapter Nine: Beneath the Opera House 

_3rd September 1881_

_Music_… _there was soft music playing somewhere_…

Christine tilted her head towards the music, her eyes still closed. Someone nearby was playing the violin… the soft notes seemed to glide across the air to her. The melody was so gentle, so soothing, that she almost drifted off to sleep again. Sighing contentedly, Christine simply listened to the violin with her eyes closed for a few minutes. The sweet, haunting, almost mournful tune reminded her of her father…

That made Christine open her eyes, and the moment she did so, she sat bolt upright. Her eyes widened in fright and surprise; she had absolutely no idea where she was. The simple wooden bedstead, dresser, and chair, although such essentially simple objects, were completely alien to her. For a moment, she was terrified… and then somewhere nearby the music rose in a soaring crescendo, and Christine's fear melted with the sound. If she didn't know where she was… well, she would just have to find out. She would follow the music.

Pushing back the blanket and sliding off the bed, Christine thoroughly searched the room with her eyes. Her shoes were there on the floor beside the bed, and her bag was sitting on a small writing desk tucked into the corner. It was a perfectly ordinary bedroom, and Christine thought that perhaps someone had seen her attacked the night before and had brought her home with them out of kindness. That was truly the only logical possibility… Slipping her feet into her shoes, she moved over to the door and opened it slightly.

There was a long, dimly lit hallway in front of her. The music was louder here, and the song seemed to have changed. As Christine walked along the hall towards the sounds, the violinist started in on what was definitely a new piece. Gone was the ethereal beauty of the last song, although this new one had a brilliance all its own. The somber quality was still there, but this time Christine could almost see the bow dancing back and forth across the strings, the movements nearly jerky and awkward, the violinist's fingers gliding over the fingerboard in quick, intricate patterns, as the melody darted up and down, back and forth. There was something very familiar in the structure of the notes, in the melody and cadence, but Christine couldn't quite put her finger on it…

Finally, she found where the music was most probably coming from. The door was slightly ajar, and she pushed it open without a sound, stepping into the room with the grace and silence that comes only from years of dancers' training. Perhaps she should have given some sound of warning, some inclination that she was there and wished to come in, but she couldn't bring herself to break the sensation of the music. If she spoke, she knew that the violinist would stop.

Standing alone in the center of the room was a tall man, clad in black dress clothes. He was standing with his left side facing her, and his eyes were closed as he played. Christine could tell that he had no idea that she was standing there, so absorbed in his music was he. As she listened to him play, she looked around the room in wide-eyed wonderment – the walls were literally lined with musical instruments of every kind imaginable. There was an upright piano to the side of the man, and behind him were shelves containing leather cases sized to hold anything from a piccolo to a cello. Manuscript paper lay on top of the piano and in piles littered across the floor, some sheets containing notes and lyrics, others blank, awaiting this man's attentions.

Finally, the man's song finished, and he allowed the note to quiver and fade before lowering his bow.

"Bravo, monsieur." Christine said quietly, thinking that it was time she made her presence known, before he turned and saw her simply standing there.

The man turned around with a start and stared at her for a second, his eyebrows raised. Or at least, the eyebrow she could see – the right half of his face was covered with a pure white leather mask.

"Christine…" Erik stammered, then cursed inwardly. He shouldn't have spoken. He shouldn't have said her name. He should have disguised his voice… Although the time he could play the benevolent stranger was short, as he lived underground beneath the Paris Opera House…

But instead of the suspicion at knowing her name without ever having spoken to her that Erik had expected, Christine's eyes widened in recognition; it was all she could do to keep her mouth from dropping open.

"Angel?" she whispered. "Angel, is that… is that really you?"

One word. That had been all it had taken her to recognize his voice – just her name. Erik was stunned, and yet… he was pleased at the same time. But instead of showing either surprise or pleasure, he sighed resignedly. She had caught him.

"No, Christine. I am no angel. I am just a man." He took a few steps to the side and put his violin and bow down onto the piano bench before turning back to Christine, half expecting to see an accusatory expression on her face.

Christine, however, simply could not stop staring at him. She had wanted to see her angel for so long, and there he was, right in front of her. Did this mean that Meg was right? No, of course not. Christine knew her angel, _trusted_ her angel. He would never do anything to harm her.

"That's not true." she finally stammered. She had to believe it. He was standing there in front of her. And yet… and yet she couldn't believe it, _refused_ to believe it… Her father could not have lied to her… He was her angel; he _had _to be…

"It is, Christine. I'm afraid I've… I've lied to you… I'm sorry. I'm not an angel." Erik was tempted for a moment to say 'I am a monster,' but he didn't need to make the situation any worse than it was. "I'm a man… a composer, an architect… just a man. Just… just Erik." How long had it been since he had told someone his name? The only other human he had any sort of real contact with was Adele Giry…

Christine couldn't stop staring at him. She may have had her doubts, may have dreamt about meeting her angel, but never had she thought she really would… And yet here he was, surrounded by ordinary, solidly, tangibly _human_ things… and suddenly it hit her. Suddenly she saw, clear as day, that he had lied to her, that everything she had tried so hard to believe for the past two years wasn't real, and her silly, childish illusion had finally been shattered. _God, why have I been so childish, so stupid?! How could I have believed this for so long?_ she thought, although still shocked into speechlessness. For another long moment, she simply gaped at him, unable to think of what to say, what to do, when faced with the barefaced truth of the situation. Finally, she let her head droop, mentally chastising herself for her idiocy.

"I… I'm sorry, Christine. For… for lying to you… for… everything…" Damn! Why did words evade him when he spoke to her face-to-face? Why?! "I should never have played the angel… I am not an angel, never have been, never will be…"

"Stop." Christine interrupted suddenly. She took a few steps closer; unexpectedly, she was right in front of him, looking up at him, staring him straight in the eye. "Don't, please, Angel… Erik… It should be me apologizing, not you… I've been so foolish… perhaps things could have been different from the start if I hadn't…"

Both of them fell into one of the loudest silences they had ever heard. Neither knew what to say; Christine was still trying to make some sort of sense of the situation as it now stood, and Erik simply couldn't find the words he needed. It was Christine who finally broke the tense moment, deciding that it would be better to say something, anything, than to stare around at the music-strewn floor and the instrument-lined shelves. She would think more on the matter later, when she was alone and could think straight…

"Can you really play all of these, Erik?" she asked softly, gesturing to the rows of instruments.

"Yes." he answered tentatively. "Although there's a few that I play much more often than the others…"

Christine ran her hand gently over a worn leather trumpet case.

"Which ones?"

"Piano, primarily, but also violin and flute quite often." he replied, smiling at last.

"You're a wonderful violinist. Perhaps even better than my father…" Christine trailed off suddenly and let her hand fall from the shelf.

"Your father was a musician?" Erik asked, suddenly curious. He knew very little of her past, although not nearly as little as she knew of his.

"Yes. Both my parents were… But they passed away years ago."

"I'm sorry." Erik said softly, and he truly meant it. He could hear the lingering sorrow in her voice, and knew that, unlike his own parents, hers had loved her. The thought was mind-boggling.

"It's all right… but I shouldn't have brought it up… Tell me something about yourself, Erik." she asked abruptly, looking up expectantly at him. She might as well be blunt about it; she hardly knew him, even after two years, and now that she'd truly met him at last, she craved answers to hundreds of questions swirling through her mind.

Erik turned away.

"If it's something happy you want to hear, Christine, my past is not the place to find it." he said gruffly.

Christine's eyes widened in surprise, but she did not press him any more, even though her already awakened curiosity was piqued still further. Instead, she walked around to stand next to him, so close that their arms were nearly brushing. She studied him silently for a long moment, memorizing his every detail now that she could finally see him. He was very tall and well-built; her head only just came above his shoulder. For some reason, he was refusing to look at her and was staring at the floor. All she could really see of his face was the mask.

The mask… The simple white leather was completely intriguing. Why did he wear it? What was he hiding? For a split second, Christine considered simply reaching up and pulling it away… but she couldn't do that. She knew there must be a very good reason why he wore the mask, and to just take it away… that would be a horrible thing to do.

"Erik, what's wrong?" she asked. "You're very quiet all of a sudden."

"It's just… I'm not used to… talking to you… to anyone… face-to-face…" he said awkwardly.

"It's all right." Christine said, smiling and gently putting her hand on his arm.

Erik very nearly flinched away from her touch. He was so surprised by it… by all of her… Someone touching him out of compassion, rather than cruelty, was so new to him…

"Erik… could you, perhaps… play me something? Your music is so beautiful…"

Erik smiled at her, and Christine couldn't help but smile back. He had such a nice smile…

"Of course, Christine, if that is what you'd like."

He walked away from her and picked up the flute case that was sitting on top of the piano. He quickly put the instrument together, blew a few experimental notes, and then began to play.

Christine closed her eyes as Erik began to play – he was just as skilled with the flute as the violin, and the familiar melody was wonderful, perfect. It had been one of her favorites from childhood – _The Last Rose of Summer_. Her father had played it often, and it was one of the few memories she had of her mother. Partway through, she began to hum it, and by the end of the song, she was singing softly along with Erik's beautiful flute.

"_So soon may I follow  
When friendships decay;  
And from love's shining circle  
The gems drop away  
When true hearts lie wither'd  
And fond ones are flown  
Oh! Who would inhabit  
This bleak world alone?_"

Christine sighed contentedly when Erik finally lowered his flute and placed it next to the violin on the piano bench.

"Thank you, Erik. That was brilliant… I've always loved that song."

"It is a wonderful melody… I never have quite understood the words, however." Blast. He shouldn't have mentioned that…

Christine looked puzzled for a moment.

"The rose is left by itself… and no one wants to go through life on your own." she said haltingly, trying to explain something she had always thought self-explanatory.

"Yes, but… I have always been alone." Erik said so softly that Christine thought for a moment that he might have said nothing at all.

But she was sure that he had spoken. Her expression changed instantly – all she could feel was pity and compassion for this man she hardly knew. Had he never had even one friend? Could an angel truly live life all alone? She did the only thing she could think to do – she moved over to stand beside him and took his hand in hers reassuringly.

"Not anymore." she whispered, smiling kindly up at him.

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A/N: Woot, I finally figured out how to get that divider thingy on here! Anyway, I've a few things to blither on about before the usual announcement to review...

_The Last Rose of Summer_ was written in 1805 by Thomas Moore, an Irish poet. Presumably shortly afterwards, Sir John Stevenson set the poem to the lovely, haunting melody that some of you may be familiar with. This melody was also used quite often in Friedrich von Flotow's opera "Martha," first performed in 1947. On a more recent note, Charlotte Church is well known for her recording of _The Last Rose of Summer_. It is an extremely odd melody from a technical point of view, as it is written in 3/4 time and the notes do not seem to fall into a 3/4 pattern at all. Especially since there is a vast amount of eighth and sixteenth notes, especially in one trill in the third phrase; "No flow'r of her kindred/No rosebud is nigh (trill)/To reflect back her blushes/Or give sigh for sigh" or any of the latter verses.

There will be many, _many_ notes in the next chapter, but I believe that's it for this one...

Oh, and special mention next chapter for anyone who guesses what Erik was playing on the violin! I'll give you a hint: one was from PotO, the other was not, and the one that was not is _supposedly_ historically accurate.

Thanks for reading, and please leave a review! Your feedback is always appreciated! And guess the songs, too.

--Kyrie


	10. Castigation

A/N: Hello, all! I apologize once again for the delay in posting this chapter. I've had a bit of a busy weekend - Friday was my birthday, and I had a REEEEEEEALLY long voice lesson and then had to go watch my friend in the school drama. And then Saturday I was in NYC, sitting in the SEVENTH row of the Majestic Theater, watching "Phantom"... again. It's just as good the third time round, trust me! And so here it is, the next chapter! I hope you enjoy it, and that my characterization is plausible.

Oh, yeah! Thanks to **HDKingsbury** and **LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath** for their reviews!

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Chapter Ten: Castigation

_3rd September 1881_

Erik froze as he felt Christine's slender fingers wrap around his. Part of him wanted to flinch away… but part of him wanted to put his arms around her and never let her go… Somehow, he managed to do neither.

After a long moment, he finally was able to look at her. Her bright blue eyes shone, and she was smiling warmly up at him, as if to prove to him that he _wasn't_ alone, that _she_ was there. If only he could tell her how much that meant to him…

Christine had to remind herself that he wasn't really an angel when he smiled softly back at her. Perhaps if he hadn't lied to her, or if she had had the sense to see through the lie from the outset, they could have truly known each other by now. But she wasn't going to think about his lie or her foolishness or anything about it at the moment… she needed to be alone to truly sort that out. And so, following her oddly impulsive mood, she gently rested her head against Erik's shoulder and closed her eyes with a sigh.

Surprised by her sudden boldness, Erik raised an eyebrow, watching her quietly. There was a soft smile on her face… She was so close to him that he could feel her breathing, could tell that she smelled faintly of roses… Her soft, russet curls gracefully framed her angelic face, and he wanted to tuck them back behind her ear… but he didn't want to move, didn't want to ruin that moment.

They spent the rest of the day together. Erik showed Christine his library, a cozy little room with floor-to-ceiling built-in shelves, nearly all of them full to the bursting point with books. Christine was immensely surprised – she had never known anyone who owned that many books before. She walked along the shelves in the at-present dimly lit room, reading the fading gilt lettering on the spines of each book as she passed, sometimes recognizing the title, sometimes not. There were nearly two shelves devoted to Victor Hugo, and another shelf held Shakespeare's plays. There were a few of Alexandre Dumas' novels, as well as a few foreign authors, the titles of whose books Christine could not read. A few of the tomes were of collected works of poetry. One book in particular, a translation of American short stories, lay open with a red ribbon marking the page.

"_Le Masque de la Mort Rouge_; Edgar Poe." Christine read softly. "It sounds very cheerful!" she joked, looking up at Erik with a smile.

Erik stood silhouetted in the doorway, a half-smile on his face.

"I didn't know you liked to read, Christine."

"Oh, yes. I'd do it much more often if I wasn't always at the Opera, rehearsing." Christine looked back at the book, although she wasn't reading it. Her thoughts could not have left the current situation even if she tried. She was simply overjoyed at having met her angel face-to-face at last, but his home was becoming increasingly odd. One room full of every kind of musical instrument imaginable, another overflowing with books… neither would have been very cheap. On the way to the library, Christine had noticed that, instead of a wallpaper border above the mahogany beadboard, there was a long, painted music staff that bore the notes of the _Dies Iræ _many times repeated. And there was not a single window in any of the rooms she had been in thus far.

"Erik, why are there no windows in your house?" she asked suddenly.

_Damn_, Erik thought. He'd have to explain everything to her now.

"There are no windows because we are currently underground. Beneath the Opera House, in fact."

"Beneath the… but how?" Christine asked, stunned.

"I helped to build the Opera."

"Really?"

Erik smiled at Christine's curiosity and began to tell her about the construction of the Opera and how he had come to live beneath it.

The hours passed amazingly fast after that, and soon it was nearly nine o'clock. Erik led Christine up to his secret entrance on the Rue Scribe and insisted on hailing a brougham to take her home. When the cab pulled up, Christine turned back to Erik with a smile.

"Thank you, Erik. I'm very, very glad to have met you."

Erik returned her smile and, feeling bold, took her hand and kissed it.

"_Bonne nuit_, Christine." he said softly.

Christine's smile widened and she reluctantly stepped into the cab. Just as it lurched forward a moment later, she looked out the window to see Erik again, but he had vanished.

_That's strange_… but then, that whole afternoon had been strange. Especially Erik's underground home and the secret, hidden passageways past the still, glossy surface of the lake and winding up five floors to the street. Come to think of it, she hadn't seen any sort of door in the building from the outside, and never in seven years at the Opera had she come across any exit leading to the Rue Scribe… How had Erik come to know those passages? Had he built them, just like he had built his home? Or perhaps there was another reason that he knew all of those passageways…

_The Phantom of the Opera_…

No, it couldn't be. Erik couldn't be the infamous Opera Ghost. Why had she even jumped to such an irrational conclusion?

But through all the absurd Phantom stories she had ever heard, despite the massive discrepancies between each, there was always one thing the same: the way the Phantom looked. In every single one, he dressed all in black… and wore a white mask over half of his face…

_Erik_…

It was absurd. It was probably just as ludicrous as believing that he was an Angel of Music… but how else would he know all those secret corridors through the Opera? And how else would he have been able to teach her without her ever seeing him…?

When Christine finally reached her flat, she sank down onto one of the chairs without bothering to light the gas lamps. If discovering that her angel was only a man had been a shock, this sudden realization was ten times worse. What if Meg had been right? All that time, and she had believed everything he had said… he could have done something to her if he'd wanted to…

But he would never want to. As little as she knew of his background, of him as a man, Christine knew Erik's disposition. He would never harm her, never in a thousand years.

Could she still trust him, though? He had lied to her, had lied to her for two long years… could he lie to her again? Or rather, would he? Did she really know him at all? And if he truly was the Phantom – he had to be – what of that? In actuality, the Ghost only seemed to like giving certain performers sharp reprimands and the manager commands on how to run the Opera, and of course playing tricks on them if he was ever ignored. But everyone had blown him far out of proportion, since no one knew what he was really capable of. Everyone was terrified of him, even though they had no real reason to fear him, simply because they were unsure of what he might do to them next.

Still… if he had meant her harm, why would he have waited this long? He had never hurt her in the two years she had known him… she had never even seen him! No, Erik would never hurt her, of that she was certain.

Even though he had lied to her, it was herself that she was truly angry at. After all, she had believed him, just because of a story her father had liked to tell her. She had wanted so much for it to be true that she had made it the truth for herself. But it wasn't… it never had been. She wished that he had just introduced himself normally… but then, he was the Opera Ghost, wasn't he? He could hardly do that, she supposed. And there had been that lost, hurt,_ pleading_ look in his eyes when he'd told her the truth at last that afternoon… she also couldn't deny the odd sense of elation that finally seeing him had given her, and the feeling of meeting his eyes at last…

Christine mulled over the afternoon and every implication of it that she could think of until her head hurt. Her little flat was quite dark by then, but she still didn't bother to light the lamps. Instead, she changed into her nightdress in the dark and crawled into bed, completely exhausted.

"Erik… I… I know you can't hear me, but I… I forgive you…" she said quietly, really to herself. "I'll see you before the next performance… _bonne nuit, mon ange_."

Christine was just drifting off to sleep when she jerked straight upright with another thought to add to the list of things that would keep her up all night.

"_Mon Dieu_, the performance!"

-------------------------------

_4th September 1881_

Erik loved the Opera House on Sundays. No rehearsals, no performances, no annoying patrons. Aside from those performers who lived full-time in the Opera's dormitories, he more or less had the Palais Garnier to himself.

Or so he thought. As he was walking through the darkened wings to the orchestra pit to place a note in a few musicians' folders, he was accosted by a very angry Adele Giry.

"What have you done with Christine Daaé?"

"I've done nothing with her." Erik said, suddenly afraid that something had happened to his protégé. "What makes you assume I would?"

"If you have done nothing with her, then why was she at neither rehearsal nor performance yesterday?"

Erik swore very quietly and very vehemently in Persian. He had forgotten all about the rehearsal and performance!

"I repeat, Erik, _what have you done with her_?!"

"I assure you, Adele, I have done nothing to harm her. After the opening night performance, Christine – rather foolishly – decided to _walk_ home, and she was waylaid by a thief in the Tuileries. She fell, and hit her head… and I took her to my home, as I couldn't carry her all the way back to her apartment. We both must have very innocently forgotten about the Opera yesterday. My sincerest apologies, Adele."

Madame Giry crossed her arms and looked sourly up at Erik.

"You don't fool me, Erik; you're not sorry at all. Do you realize that she could lose her position because of something like this?"

"Christine will not lose her position, Adele. I shall see to that." Erik replied stiffly. "If you would kindly tell Lefévre that she was ill this weekend…"

"No, I will not. Tell him yourself, Monsieur Erik." she snapped.

Erik raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"And I suppose it would be beneficial to Christine if the Opera Ghost vouched for her absence yesterday?" he said smoothly.

Adele Giry frowned and made a slight growling noise at the back of her throat. He was right this time, and she never did like it when he was right.

"All right. I shall inform Lefévre of Christine's 'illness'… if you will swear not to do this again."

"I will not keep Christine from any rehearsals or performances. You have my word."

"And I shall hold you to it." Madame Giry said stiffly, with a curt jerk of her head, before turning and marching away.

Erik shook his head as he watched her leave, and returned to placing his notes for the musicians. He reminded himself that he ought to leave one for Christine as well, informing her that she was 'unwell' over the weekend.

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A/N: And now it's time for really, really long author notes! Yay!

First off: the songs from the last chapter. Thanks to both my reviewers, but sadly your guesses weren't correct. I tried to give as many hints as I could, but... hehe... Anyway, it was the second song that was from "Phantom," and it was the violin solo in Act II, right before "Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again" (which was great last night!). It happens to be my favorite instrumental from Phantom... The first one was a song that I always thought was from the Civil War, but in actuality it wasn't. It's writer described it as "a Scottish lament written by a Jewish guy from the Bronx." Yep, twas the "Ashokan Farewell"! It was written by Jay Ungar in 1982 and used as the theme (and only non-historical song) in the 1990's TV PBS series on the American Civil War.

And now on to things from this chapter!

Victor Hugo: (1802-1885) was an extremely influential French Romantic writer, whose best known works are perhaps _Les Miserables _and _Notre-Dame de Paris (The Hunchback of Notre Dame)_. Aside from writing novels, he was also a poet, playwright, essayist, visual artist, and human rights campaigner.

William Shakespeare: (1564-1616) an English actor and playwright, said to be the father of modern drama. He wrote 37 (or 38, depending on whether you count his last one, which was unfinished before he died) plays and 154 sonnets in his lifetime. His plays are remarkable examples of characterization, and still have great bearing today. Some examples are _Romeo and Juliet_, _Othello _(both of which were turned into operas), _A Midsummer Night's Dream, Julius Caesar, _and _Macbeth._

Alexandre Dumas: (1802-1870) another Frenchman and author of the famous "Three Musketeers" and "Count of Monte Cristo."

Edgar Allan Poe: (1809-1849) an American short story writer, poet, editor and critic. He is known best for his tales of the bizarre and macabre, such as "The Raven," "The Tell-Tale Heart," and "The Pit and the Pendulum," the invention of the word _phantasmagorical_, and his early and abnormal death. Although very much ignored by his own country, he was quite famous in French magazines, and they often shortened his name to 'Edgar Poe.' He was also the author of "The Masque of the Red Death," which is paralleled so delightfully in "Masquerade" and "Why So Silent?"

The _Dies Iræ_: a Christian-Latin text from the thirteenth century of trochaic meter, or a stressed syllable followed by an unstressed syllable, depicting the Judgment Day. It has often been used for a Requiem mass, and has been set to music by Mozart, Verdi, and Berlioz, among others. More modern references include the monks in Monty Python's "Holy Grail," Stephen Sondheim's "Sweeney Todd", the song "La Vie Boheme" from _Rent_, Alan Menken's and Stephen Schwartz's "The Bells of Notre Dame" from Disney's _Hunchback of Notre Dame_, and on the walls in our own beloved Erik's house in Gaston Leroux's original novel. A piece that starts out "_Dies iræ, dies illa_ (day of wrath, that day) _solvet saeclum in favilla_ (which will consume the world in ashes)" seems unfortunately fitting for the poor guy.

Wow, that was long. Hope I didn't bore anybody! Please tell me what you think! Thanks for reading! --Kyrie


	11. Light and Dark, Black and White

A/N: Happy Friday, all! Thanks very much to **Kinetic Asparagus**, **Sonne Feuer**, and **herarose **for their reviews! Thanks also to everyone who's got me on a favorites or alert list - I've almost caught up with my completed story in numbers, even though this one's been up for a much shorter time! So, without further ado, enjoy the chapter.

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Chapter 11: Light and Dark, Black and White 

_5th September 1881_

_Christine,_

_I must inform you that you were terribly ill this Saturday and Sunday, which is why you were unable to attend either rehearsal or performance on Saturday. I also must apologize for the real circumstances which led to your absence from the Opera this weekend. _

_Erik_

Christine lowered the missive and shook her head. Why did Erik think he had to apologize? It wasn't as if she was not at fault as well. He hadn't held her in his home against her will – she could have remembered about the Opera and asked to return. But they had both forgotten… and it was possible that, even if she had remembered, she would not have said anything. True, she had worried about her unexplained absence all of Sunday, but still… she had wanted to meet him for so long… And she needed to apologize for her own stupidity as much as he did for lying to her.

"Erik…" she said softly. "Are you there?"

There was no reply. The room's silence echoed eerily in his absence.

"Erik?" Still no response. "Perhaps he's not there… he's probably going to watch the rehearsal… that's where he is now, why he's not answering me." she told herself quietly to chase away thoughts that she might never see him again now that she had seen him once.

Rehearsal. Christine very nearly hit herself over the head with her libretto. She did, however, tear out of her dressing room like a madwoman and ran onto the stage faster than she had ever run in her life, skidding to a stop behind Meg and attempting to join the chorus in at least a semi-dignified manner. The panting gave her away.

"Miss Daaé, where the devil were you on Saturday?" Reyer snapped the moment he saw her. It was clear from the onset that the maestro was not in a good mood.

"I'm very sorry, monsieur…" Christine said politely, albeit still rather breathlessly. "I was ill over the weekend…" Her mad dash to the stage suddenly caused her breath to catch in her throat, and she began to cough very convincingly.

"Will you be able to sing today, Christine?" another one of the singers, Brigette, asked concernedly.

Christine nodded, still struggling to get her breathing under control and cursing the inventor of corsets.

"But of course she fakes it." Carlotta said haughtily from the other side of the stage. Every eye turned to look at her, which, naturally, had been exactly what she wanted. "She o'viously spent the day with her…"

"_SILENCE!_"

The Phantom's voice boomed out across the theater and an unnatural quiet immediately fell. It did not last long, however, as Christine decided then that she had had enough.

"I would thank you to stop making unfounded accusations against me!" she snapped.

Neither Christine nor Carlotta said another word, but the tension was nearly tangible. Reyer cleared his throat loudly in an attempt to break the strained silence.

"Yes, well, be sure not to miss another performance, Miss Daaé. I cannot guarantee that there will be no consequences for your absence from the last one; that is for Monsieur Lefévre to decide."

"Yes, sir." Christine said quietly, praying that she would not lose her position over this…

"All right, then, everyone, I want places for the top of the show!" Reyer shouted over everyone's heads.

The cast and crew shuffled off to their assorted places and the musicians opened their scores, some of them turning rather pale when a black bordered letter fell into their laps. Christine, however, did not pay any attention to this, for as she was taking her place, Carlotta walked past her and deliberately pushed her aside, nearly knocking her over. Had her position not been in danger as it was, Christine would have shoved back. Enough was enough!

Erik, watching from his usual seat in Box Five, thought so too. It was time to do something about that… _woman_! She had insulted Christine one too many times… He let out a barely audible growl when Carlotta pushed his student. Christine, walking towards the stage right wings, looked up at the faint sound and thought she caught a glimpse of a shadow in the box above her. Erik saw her smile and knew that somehow she had managed to see him. He shrank back into the box as she disappeared into the wings and the orchestra began the overture.

Had she seen him? Was that possible? But then… then she would know that he was the Phantom… For the first time in his life, Erik found it very hard to watch the rehearsal that played out beneath his feet.

* * *

At one-thirty, Reyer allowed the cast and crew a half-hour break to find something to eat. Food was the last thing on Christine's mind, however. Instead of returning to her dressing room for her lunch, she slipped into the hallway that led to the Grand Foyer with the intention of visiting Box Five. 

Her footsteps echoed slightly on the white marble floors of the majestic entrance to the Opera. The gas lamps cast a golden glow over the floors and ornately carved doorways and banisters, and Christine hurried up the vacant steps towards the hallway leading to the stage right grand tier box. The Phantom's box… _Erik's _box.

The door to the box was closed, but unlocked. She knocked softly to let him know that someone was coming in, and pushed the door open quietly. At first glance, the box appeared to be empty. But there was one shadow that had a distinct shape to it, and Christine swore that she saw it move.

"Erik? Is that you?" she asked softly, not wanting to call attention to anyone still onstage. There was no immediate reply. "Erik, I know you're there. Please, I need to talk to you." she added, her voice suddenly very serious.

_She _needs _to talk to _me_? But why_…Reluctantly, Erik stepped out of the safe haven of the shadows and into the dim light of the rest of the box.

"How did you find me here?" Erik said as he stepped out of the shadows, a little too harshly, he realized too late.

"I… saw a shadow up here that looked suspiciously human… and everyone knows that the Opera Ghost reserves Box Five for his own use." she put in rather boldly.

Erik stiffened immediately.

"You know, then." he said softly, halfway between a whisper and a hiss. Oh, but how he had wanted for her never to find that out…

"Yes. It really wasn't all that hard to figure out, Erik."

"If you know that, then why have you come looking for me? The Phantom is a horrible, dangerous monster, remember?" Erik whispered scathingly, half turning away.

"In two years, you've never done me any harm. What reason do I have to believe you'll hurt me now?" Christine replied calmly, bent on explaining her thoughts from the weekend to him. Then again, she was surprised – and perhaps a little alarmed – at the cold tone his voice was taking…

"I've lied to you once, haven't I?" Erik snapped, realizing that he was expressing his own view in the worst possible way and unable to stop himself. He was probably going to force her into doing the one thing that he couldn't stand to have her ever do – run from him. "I could lie to you again; I might have lied about other things… did you ever think of that possibility, Christine?"

"I have, and I don't believe that's true." What was wrong with Erik? He wasn't acting like himself at all… he was acting like the Phantom. Far from scaring her, though, it irked her. Was he _trying_ to scare her away? What was he up to?

Erik laughed softly, knowing that he was slipping further and further towards an argument he did not want to have…

"Erik, stop; now you're just being silly!" Christine said irritably, wishing that the Erik she knew would return.

"Oh, am I?" Erik snapped, raising his voice.

"Shhh, keep your voice down! Someone might hear…"

"So, you are afraid to be caught with the Opera Ghost?"

"Actually, Erik, I was thinking about your own safety!" she hissed. "You're not acting like yourself at all. I've known at least that much about you for the past two years. I came to tell you that I forgive you for impersonating the Angel of Music, and to apologize for my own stupidity, but apparently you don't want to hear it!"

Erik stared at her, shocked. She'd come to do _what_? Forgive him… apologize… damn, what had he just done?

Christine watched him closely through the long, silent moment that followed, and it seemed almost as though he was deflating. Had his anger been entirely an act, then? Watching him curiously, Christine took another step forward.

"Erik, are you all right?"

Erik simply stared at her, without even bothering to raise his head to meet her eyes. Was he all right? Of course he wasn't all right! He had just shouted at her, had just assumed that she was there to reprimand him for his numerous misdeeds, when she had come to forgive him… and no one else had ever done that… no one but her ever would be able to do that… He just kept making a fool out of himself!

How could anyone ever have thought that he was an angel, even for an instant? Him? Never. But Christine… Christine was an angel… and angels did not consort with demons. He never should have involved her in this, in his… with him.

"Erik?" she asked again, sounding worried now. Even though she could not see his face, the way he stood, the way his hands clenched and his shoulders tensed, told her without a spoken word that there was something wrong. She took a step forward and reached her hand out towards him, planning on putting it on his shoulder comfortingly…

Erik didn't let her. He couldn't let her. He jerked back with a snarl, half satisfied when he saw the frightened expression in her eyes. And then, with a swish of his long black cloak, he was gone.

Christine stood very still for a long moment. What in the world had just happened? And Erik… why had he acted that way? Had she done something wrong? He had never been angry around her before, not in all the two years that she had known him. God, what was she supposed to do? She covered her face with her hands, trying to think of what to do, what to say… where had he gone? _How_ had he gone? Not really expecting to find him, she searched the box for some way for him to have disappeared and found none. Had he jumped out of the box? With a horrified gasp, she ran to the edge and looked down, but he was not there either.

"Oh, God, Erik, I'm sorry. I should never have shouted, I… I must confess I haven't a clue what to do. I do know that… that I also came here to thank you for what you did for me earlier… for intervening with Carlotta. Perhaps I… perhaps I'll see you after rehearsal then, angel… Erik… that is, if you can still hear me."

With a sigh, Christine left the box and hurriedly returned to rehearsal, knowing that this time, not even Erik could save her from getting into enormous amounts of trouble if she was late again.

* * *

Joseph Buquet, head flyman, was up to no good. As per usual, of course. He had seen the little Daaé girl sneak off at the start of break. With the intent of getting her on her own for a bit, he had followed her, careful to keep a good distance behind her so that she would not see or hear him. And now he was being rewarded beyond his wildest dreams… 

Buquet had fostered an unhealthy fascination with the Opera Ghost since he had first arrived at the theater. He had always wanted to see the Ghost and, when he later learned more about him, to catch him. Now that would be what he called a feather in his cap! He had even seen the Ghost once, at a distance and only for an instant, but long enough to see the tall frame, the black opera cloak… the porcelain-white mask… He had searched for the Phantom for hours afterwards, not finding a trace. And it seemed that the little chorus girl had led Buquet right to him.

So, she knew the Ghost, did she? Knew him _intimately_, it seemed, from what conversation he picked up through the door of the box. Even though they were both speaking in hushed voices to avoid being overheard, he gathered enough. This put clinching proof on Buquet's suspicions about the Phantom – he knew that this Ghost was not a ghost at all, but a deluded man pretending to be a phantom so as to reap the benefits of effectively running the Opera. But then, as a man, this ghost was far more dangerous, because he could and did assume the complete appearance of a real phantom. In some freakish way, this man was both spectre and man in one.

Suddenly, Buquet caught the sound of footsteps coming towards him, and he shot away from the door of the box, rounding the nearest corner. As he watched Christine leave the box, close the door behind her, and return to the stage, he resisted the urge to burst in through that door himself. But he needed time, time to find out more about this "ghost"… time to disrupt things a bit… And besides, it would be far too risky to attempt anything now, and the management would probably have his hide if he wasn't in the flies when rehearsal began again.

As he returned to the stage, he milled over what he had just heard. The ghost wasn't a ghost at all, then. He was a man, a man named Erik, it seemed. Perhaps he already had some power over this Erik fellow. Buquet now knew that he was no phantom; he was a man. And all men were vulnerable…

_A ghost who bleeds is less dangerous!_

* * *

A/N: What's this? A plot-forwarding chapter at last? Gasp! Hopefully my characterization's stayed on track - this was my last problem-chapter. Please take a moment to tell me what you think. Thanks for reading! --Kyrie_  
_


	12. Check

A/N: WOW!!! I must have done something right in that last chapter, because I got a veritable _flood_ of reviews! Thanks very much to **HDKingsbury**, **Kinetic Asparagus**, **draegon-fire**, **StakeMeSpike04**, **Katherine Silverhair**, **Mini Nicka**, **Ceinwyn**, and **LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath** for their reviews! This story also has 3,000 hits, just since September! You guys are awesome.

What's this? More plot? Great! Well, I really hope you enjoy this one as much as you liked the last one!

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Chapter 12: Check

_9th September 1881_

Not a word. Not a word out of Erik for the past week. Christine cursed herself and her utter stupidity for the thousandth time as she wandered the halls backstage after the performance. It was her own foolishness that had caused this mess, her own idiotic childish beliefs. How could she have been so naïve? And now she had offended Erik, and she hadn't seen or heard from him since their argument in Box Five.

And as much as she knew that she couldn't rely completely on him, she felt so lost without him…

She suddenly heard a squeal from a nearby corridor, a sound that was half scream, half hysterical laughter. She was about to ignore it and continue towards her dressing room when she recognized Meg's voice in the laughter and decided to see what was so funny.

The moment she rounded the corner and saw what was so funny, however, she wished she hadn't. A group of the ballet girls were gathered around the flyman, Joseph Buquet, giggling madly. Buquet wore what was unmistakably a makeshift cape around his shoulders, and he was darting back and forth among the girls trying to scare them, imitating the Opera Ghost. Imitating Erik. Christine frowned, folding her arms across her chest, her anger growing the more she watched.

"He walks here and there, they say, a part of the shadows themselves, seldom seen or heard by any. He could very well be a shadow, so dark is he, save for the white mask that covers half his face. The Ghost is not kind, either, to little ballet girls who stumble across him. You must be always on your guard, or he will catch you, Meg, or you, Ellinor…"

"You can't seriously believe this." Christine snapped suddenly, unable to take Buquet's lies any longer. He didn't know Erik!

"Ah, Mademoiselle Daaé. How kind of you to join us." Buquet said with a leering smile. "Do you perhaps have anything to add to my tale?"

"Why would I?" Christine said calmly, although wondering what he meant by asking her.

"You know the Phantom so much better than I… but of course, you don't agree at all with my version of his tale, do you? He's not a ghost to you… he's an _angel_."

Christine could hear Meg gasp from behind Buquet, but she paid her friend no attention. Instead, she glared at the flyman and took a step backwards.

"I don't know what you're talking about." she snapped, then turned and left the corridor, heading back to her dressing room with the intention of returning home.

However, just as she was about to turn the doorknob and enter her little room, she heard heavy footsteps behind her. Whirling around, she saw that Buquet had followed her, alone.

"What's the matter, Christine? Don't want to tell ol' Joseph about your little friend?"

"What do you want, Buquet?"

"Want? Me? Why, nothing, except to ensure your safety. You must know that the Phantom of the Opera is not to be meddled with."

"I do not know the Phantom. Now please, I'd like to go home."

She turned towards the door of her dressing room again, but Buquet sidestepped her to stand in front of the door.

"Bent on protecting him, are you?" he said, leering again. Christine tried to walk away from him, but he began circling her like a shark, keeping her from getting away. "Won't let anyone harm your precious angel, hmm? All I want to know is where he is."

Christine said nothing. She turned away from Buquet and began to walk briskly towards the stage again, but he came up behind her and grabbed her shoulder.

"What did he do to you, Christine? Has he had his fun?" he whispered in her ear, caressing her neck with his other hand.

"Get away from me!" Christine yelped, elbowing Buquet hard in the stomach and spinning away from him. Buquet was panting and doubled over in pain, but he still managed to smirk up at her.

"Give the Phantom my greetings, girl."

"I don't know him!" Christine squeaked one last time before darting into her dressing room and locking the door behind her.

Once the door had closed, Christine began to shake violently. Leaning heavily against the door, she clutched at her throat convulsively, fighting down the urge to vomit. She could almost still feel his hands on her…

"Christine? Are you all right?" Erik said suddenly from behind the mirror.

Christine jumped, her eyes still wide.

"Erik, shhh! He might still be out there… might be listening…" she whispered.

"Who…?" Erik asked, using the same hushed tone as Christine, although he hadn't a clue why.

"Buquet." she replied.

_No_… had his angel had a run-in with _him_? As soon as he had arrived at the opera, that stagehand had quickly earned himself a reputation as trouble. Not only was he far too nosy where Erik was concerned, he was far too flirtatious with the ballet and chorus girls… and if something had happened to Christine…

Erik opened the mirror-door and stepped through into her dressing room, alarmed at how much paler she seemed up close.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine… please, Erik, not here…"

Erik nodded and offered her his hand. She took it silently and allowed him to lead her through the mirror and into the black passageway beyond. There was very obviously something wrong; she followed him through the dark corridors down to the lake, even across the lake itself, without a single word, not one, and her small hand was slightly clammy and gripped his almost too tightly. The moment he got them to the house on the lake, he led her into his library and then left for a few minutes to make her a cup of tea.

"Thank you." she said quietly, taking the cup from him when he returned.

"Christine, what happened? What's wrong?"

"I… I was going to go home right after the performance, and I was… still so angry at myself, and… I missed you… but I heard some shouts down one of the halls and I recognized Meg's voice… so I went to see what was going on. It was Buquet… he was ridiculing you! He was saying all sorts of horrible things about you… and I asked if anyone could seriously believe such nonsense… Buquet must have heard us in Box Five the other day, Erik… he said that I knew you, that you were my angel, in front of all the other girls… I said it wasn't true… I didn't think you'd like any more rumors spread… but Buquet followed me back to my dressing room and he… he… cornered… me… and I…" Christine fell silent and looked away, rubbing her throat again and shivering.

Erik finally managed to coax what had happened out of her, and he was absolutely livid when he did. How _dare_ that filthy scoundrel touch his protégé?! He would _kill_ Buquet…

Over the rim of her teacup, Christine watched Erik's expression change rapidly. The calm, gentle face she had come to associate with the voice she had known for so long was gone, replaced by a mask of cold fury. His dark eyes, staring off into the distance just past her, burned with hatred.

"Erik?" she asked softly, a note of worry creeping into her voice.

"Buquet will pay for this, Christine…" Erik snarled, getting to his feet and sweeping towards the door, his long black cloak swirling around him.

"Erik, wait…" Christine leapt up behind him and put her hand on his shoulder. She felt his arm tense under her touch, felt him fighting the urge to brush her off and find Buquet, but she held on. "Erik, don't harm him. I'm all right, really… I was just… _am_ just a little… scared. Please, he's not worth the trouble, Erik… just let him be."

Erik relaxed a little and turned to see her worried expression. Under any other circumstances, he would have smiled at her.

"I will… this time. I shall inform Lefévre about this, however."

Christine nodded, then suddenly threw her arms around Erik's neck, pulling him into a bone-crushing embrace. He was completely shocked until he realized that she had started shaking again, and that her encounter with Buquet had left her far more than 'a little scared.' Gently, tentatively, he wrapped his arms around her, comforting his angel as best he could.

"It's all right, Christine. I'm here; nothing can harm you… shhh, it's all right…" he murmured softly.

Christine raised her head and took a step back, not looking at him.

"I'm sorry, Erik, I… I'm being silly…" she said haltingly, her cheeks slightly pink, continuing to examine the hem of her skirt.

"It's quite all right, Christine. Would you… perhaps prefer to stay here tonight, or would you like me to take you home?"

Erik assumed that she would choose the latter, but she surprised him.

"If it's… not too much trouble… could I stay here with you?" she asked a little awkwardly, tilting her head up to meet his eyes.

"Of course, Christine, if that's what you would like."

Christine smiled at him, the first time she had done so that day.

"I would like that very much… I really have missed you, Erik."

Erik had no idea how to reply to that. Should he tell her just how her absence had been all too prominent for him? No… no, he couldn't… Instead he just smiled awkwardly and offered to take Christine's empty teacup back to his little kitchen.

Christine stared after him for a long time, trying to fathom the odd expression she'd seen in his eyes. A few rooms away, Erik was steeling himself to return to the library. He knew she would be waiting for him… but what was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do? When he returned, however, he found that Christine had provided a solution for what might have been a very awkward evening. She was standing beside one of his less full bookshelves, examining an ornately carved chess piece from the long-neglected set that Erik had put there, in spite of the slim possibility that he would ever have a chess partner.

"You play chess, Erik?" she asked, putting the piece gently back down and looking up at him.

"I haven't in quite a long time…" Erik replied, then trailed off. Christine guessed at the implication of his words – that he no longer played chess because he had no one to play with. "Do you, Christine?"

"Not really… Papa Valérius tried to teach me when I was much younger, but I much preferred my music lessons with my father then." she added with a laugh.

Erik couldn't help but smile then – she seemed genuinely _happy_ here with him…

"Would you like me to teach you?" he asked suddenly.

"If you would like to teach me, then yes, why not?"

Christine gently took the very dusty chess set off the shelf and sat down on the floor, putting it in front of her, as the only table in the room was covered with five or six books. Erik set up the board, telling Christine the names of the pieces and what each could do, pleasantly surprised when she remembered more than she had thought she would.

They began a game, the silence that had settled over the room broken only by the occasional question from Christine. 'Can a rook move this way?' or 'Knights can go backwards, correct?' she would ask, and Erik would briefly explain. She kept her mind entirely on the black and white pieces in front of her – she could not allow herself to think of anything else. Especially not about what had just happened… or about what might have happened if she had let Erik go… No, instead she remained entirely focused on the chess game, for it was a welcome distraction.

Erik, on the other hand, was silent for the opposite reason. He had never played a game of chess with his mind so entirely on other things. What Buquet had done to Christine was at the forefront of his thoughts, but there were other things as well… The way that Christine had instinctively looked to him said that she must still trust him… She had come to him, had thrown her arms around him seeking shelter and comfort… she had forgiven him his lie… he could truly believe that now.

At least a half hour, perhaps longer, passed in that comfortable silence, a sleepy sort of calm broken only by the soft click of the chess pieces and an occasional question. Christine studied the board thoughtfully; it was her move. After a moment, she pushed one of her knights forward in the now-familiar L pattern and pushed one of Erik's black pieces out of the way. When she picked up the piece, she stared at it for a moment, then asked another question.

"Checkmate?" she said, holding what was unmistakably Erik's king, but unsure if she had done it right.

Erik jerked suddenly out of his reverie.

"I'm sorry, Christine, what did you say?" he asked, looking up at her.

"Checkmate." she repeated, sounding much more sure of herself.

Erik blinked. For a long moment he said nothing, merely stared at the black king in Christine's hand and her white knight on the board where his king had been before. He must truly not have been concentrating – never before had he _lost_ a game of chess, and here he was, soundly beaten by a beginner!

"Yes…that would be checkmate." he said after a while, looking back up at Christine to meet her eyes.

Christine suddenly burst out laughing at the expression of extreme surprise etched into every line of his face.

* * *

A/N: Tee-hee. You know, I've read about twelve stories that mention Erik playing chess, but never has he actually lost... and I thought that losing to Christine would be especially amusing. And we all need a little comic relief now and then!

I was also wondering if anyone recognized a line I used. No, it's not from Phantom in any of its incarnations. Buquet says it; here's the _actual_ line: "He walks here and there, they say, as an old man, hooded and cloaked. And everywhere his spies slip past our nets." Hey, I couldn't resist... I needed to make Buquet sound smart and sinister... yeah...

So, I really hope you liked that chapter! Please let me know what you think - those reviews last week were great! Thanks a lot! --Kyrie


	13. Rumors Abound

A/N: Hello, all! I know I usually update every Friday, but in celebration of the half day off from school I had today and Thanksgiving tomorrow, I thought, hey, why not? Thanks very much to **mikabronxgirl**, **LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath**, **Kinetic Asparagus**, **draegon-fire**, **HDKingsbury**, and **StakeMeSpike04** for their wonderful reviews! You guys are awesome.

One of our characters does something that's rather, well... out-of-character in this chapter, but I've tried to justify it as much as possible. And, as my dear friend Christine (who isn't being evil when reading my stuff now, yay) said: "It's out of character... but I like it!!!" I hope you'll like it too, and understand why I did it. And KA, here's that Meg reaction you were waiting for!

* * *

Chapter 13: Rumors Abound

_9th September 1881_

Meg gasped, staring wide-eyed and white-faced up at Christine, Joseph Buquet's words ringing in her head: "_He's not a ghost to you_…_ he's an _angel."

_Christine!_

God, had she truly been tricked by the Phantom of the Opera himself? It took only one look at her best friend's furious face to know that she had been. Christine denied it, but Meg knew that it was a lie – Christine was a terrible liar, and she always had been. In numb horror, she watched her friend turn and storm off down the hallway, not even intervening when Buquet started off after her. Instead, Meg got to her feet, edged out of the now overexcited crowd of ballet girls, and shot off down the hallway to find Carlos, her pointe shoes slapping hard against the ground.

She found him coming out of the men's communal dressing room, a bag with his shoes and other effects slung over one shoulder.

"Carlos!" Meg panted, sliding to a halt in front of him.

"Meg, what on earth… your mother will have your hide for running in those shoes…"

Carlos' last word came out more as a yelp, because Meg grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him off down the hallway towards a deserted part of the Opera.

"_Dios mio_, Meg, tell me what's going on before you run me ragged!" he cried, finally managing to detach his arm from Meg's grasp.

"Christine… Christine is…" Meg panted, partially too out of breath to speak and partially unable to find the right words.

"Christine is what, Meg?" Carlos asked impatiently.

"_The Phantom's got her_!" Meg shrieked.

Carlos stared at his friend, half shocked, half completely unconvinced.

"Meg, where did you come by this absurd idea? And what do you mean he's got her? I saw her at rehearsal not half an hour ago!"

"The other girls and I… Joseph Buquet…"

"_Ay caramba_, Meg! You honestly believe that man? _Está loco!_"

"Carlos, stop that. You know I can't understand a word you're saying when you slip back into Spanish." Meg said haughtily, crossing her arms and staring up at her friend. Carlos frowned.

"He's as good as insane, Meg. What cause has he given you to believe him?"

"Carlos, I'm serious! Remember that silly story that Christine told us? About the Angel of Music?"

"Yes…" Carlos said, eyeing Meg warily, unsure of where this was going.

"Buquet was impersonating the Opera Ghost – he does it for a bit of a laugh now and then, he's quite good at telling stories – and Christine came and she looked furious when she realized what was going on… And then Buquet asked if she had anything to add to his tale, because she knew the Phantom so well…"

"Meg, he was just making that up!"

"Carlos, just listen, will you? He then realized that she would not want to take part in ridiculing the Phantom, because _he wasn't a ghost to her, but an ANGEL_!"

Carlos stared at his friend in stupefied disbelief once her shout had stopped reverberating around the hallway. No one else could possibly know about Christine's "angel" – he and Meg had sworn to keep completely silent about it; she must be extremely upset to shout about it like that. How had Buquet learned of it? Had he overheard Christine tell them of it and jumped to this odd conclusion… or had he overheard her actually speaking to the Phantom, maybe even seen…? And if Christine really was caught in some ghost's trap… Carlos' face turned white.

"Meg… what are we supposed to do? It's not as though our last attempt to find out what's going on worked at all…"

"But this time we _know_ that something's wrong!"

"Do you think she'll listen to us?" Carlos asked suddenly, sounding worried for an entirely different reason now.

"Of course she will!"

"Meg, I'm not so sure. When she told us about this angel, we didn't believe her at all… we both thought that she was still lying. And now that you've heard Buquet talk about the Phantom and link him to her angel… don't you think that's a little odd?"

"Well… maybe… But Carlos, she has to listen to us! Last time, I was just afraid that someone was… er… taking advantage of her, but this is different! The Phantom's dangerous! He's completely mad – he might even kill her!"

"Meg Giry!" a voice suddenly called from the other end of the hallway.

"_Maman_!" Meg said fearfully, jumping half a foot in the air.

"Meg, how often must I remind you not to tell tales about the Opera Ghost?" Adele Giry snapped, her eyes cold.

"Maman, I wasn't telling stories!"

"Meg…"

"No, really! He's got Christine, somehow, I know it!"

Madame Giry's expression changed very suddenly at that simple statement. No longer hard and cold, the sharp lines of her face melted instantly into worry.

"What do you mean?"

Meg hurriedly told her mother everything she had heard and seen, and everything she was now guessing at.

"I'll bet that was why Christine missed the performance last weekend… he had her somewhere! Maman, what should we do? Can't you just ask the Ghost to…"

"Meg!" Madame Giry snapped, her eyes going cold once more. "You must learn to control your tongue, girl!"

Meg looked down at the scuffed toes of her pointe shoes and mumbled her apologies.

"And must I really remind you not to run in those shoes, Meg? You will destroy them, and then where will you be?"

Carlos, who had been trying the entire time to get a word in edgewise, suddenly spoke up.

"Madame… I don't think Christine will listen to us… I…"

"Monsieur Sanchez, you seem to be a very sensible lad. My advice is simply to keep your mouth shut for the time being. _Both of you_." she added with a pointed look at her daughter. Meg's head shot up and she opened her mouth to protest. "Now, Meg, I know you are worried about Christine…" Adele continued, her voice considerably softer now. "However, there is no reason that you need do something rash; I see no evidence that Christine is in any grave or immediate danger. And she does trust you both – if she truly needs you, she will come."

And with that, Madame Giry turned and swept back down the hall. Meg made an incomprehensible noise of frustration and worry and stormed off in the other direction, leaving Carlos alone.

God, but what was wrong with everyone today? Meg would be cross with her mother for another good week, inevitably making her irritable to everyone else as well. Christine had gotten herself tangled up in the affairs of the infamous Opera Ghost. And he would probably find himself facing an extra sixty four _changements_ at the beginning of rehearsal because he had involved himself.

"_Women_." he muttered, rolling his eyes and shaking his head as he too went off down the hallway.

* * *

_14th September 1881_

It was impossible to ignore. The whispers had started the moment that Christine set foot in the Opera for rehearsal the day after Buquet's accusation, and had not stopped for the past week. The words 'angel' and 'Phantom' were tossed between chorus girls and the _petite rats_ of the ballet, dragging Christine's name through the cloud of gossip and speculation. The wings veritably buzzed with the quiet chatter behind the backs of graceful ballet fingers and furtive, pointed stares. Christine simply begged for the hours, then the days, to move more quickly – it was almost unbearable.

Every word floated up to Box Five, and Erik watched with barely-controlled fury, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the box. How he longed for Christine to denounce them all for the fools they were…! But he knew that she could not do that; it simply wasn't like her to behave that way. In spite of that, he could see that she was unusually pale, her movements and her voice stiff and agitated, and he knew that day by day the constant whispers were pushing her closer and closer to her limits…

It was odd, really. Perhaps Erik should have been angry with Christine and not her tormentors. After all, she was denying that she knew him… but after her run-in with Buquet, she had told him that she hadn't thought he would want any more rumors started. That was true enough – he had only to cough and the _corps de ballet_ would shriek and squeal and tell ridiculous tales about how he had almost got them for the next week. His reputation as the Opera Ghost was extremely useful concerning the managers, but the constant absurdity of the performers did get old. And he did have to think of her own reputation as well. If she said that she _did_ know him, it was very likely that she would be dismissed, and then there would be nothing he could say to change that. Quite frankly, he didn't blame her in the slightest for denying the rumors, especially now that they were so wildly far-fetched that she had been accused of being his lover…

At long last, rehearsal ended. Christine gave a heavy sigh of relief and made her way towards the stage doors when suddenly she was surrounded by a gaggle of ballet girls.

"Christine, what did he say to you?" "Is he really a shadow?" "Why did you go with him? Isn't he a demon?" "Oooh, Christine! Is he the Devil's servant?" "Did he 'catch you,' like Joseph Buquet said he would?" "Christine, Christine!"

Their excited cries, "concerned" expressions, and wide eyes pressed in all around her, surrounding her completely, and for a moment Christine thought she might collapse from dizziness. She shut her eyes tightly and pressed her hands to her face, trying to block them all out, hoping that her silence might discourage them. Instead, it only made them squeal louder, press in closer, beg more for little tidbits of information that they could stretch into the best story they'd ever told.

"Just leave me alone!" Christine finally shouted back, then turned and forced her way out of the little crowd.

She hurried away from the stage with only one intention – getting to her dressing room to see Erik. God, but she needed to see him after such a trying day! She longed for the quiet of Sunday, away from the Opera House, where she could relax in her little flat across the Seine and not have to think about the overly superstitious ballet and chorus girls.

"Christine!" a shout from behind her pulled her sharply out of her reverie.

"Oh, God, what now?" Christine muttered, turning to find Meg running towards her, and she sighed with relief. "Meg, I'm so glad to see you. It's been quite a while since I've had a friendly face to talk to."

"What about him?" Meg asked pointedly; she did not have to specify who 'he' was. Christine's face fell again.

"Meg…"

"Christine, just tell me what's going on! I _know_ something's wrong now – Carlos and I promised not to tell anyone about your 'angel,' how could Buquet have known about it?"

"I don't know what he thinks, Meg, but it isn't true… I don't know the Phantom… I never have!" Christine replied wearily.

"Christine! He's not clever enough to have pulled that out of thin air! Somehow he must have overheard us when you told us about this angel… or overheard you talking to the Phantom himself! There's no way he can be lying!"

"So you would take his word over mine? Over that of your best friend?" Christine asked coldly.

Meg fell silent, trying to think of something to say.

"Christine, I'm just worried…"

"I know, Meg. I know." The harsh edge vanished from Christine's voice, and she sounded exhausted, almost near tears even. "You really don't have to worry about that… I'm more worried about the other ballet girls driving me mad, really…"

"So you do know him?" Meg gasped, jumping at the inference that Christine hadn't meant to put there.

"No. I do not know the Phantom. I only know my teacher."

"Christine, they're the same person!"

"I would not expect you to understand!" Christine snapped, then calmed down for fear of really hurting her friend. "Meg… I'm tired… it's been a very long day… Can we talk about this later, some other time? Please?"

"No! Christine, the Ghost is dangerous, I know he is! He's always threatening 'a disaster beyond imagination,' and I don't want him to hurt you!"

"I told you, I don't know the Ghost." Christine said one last time. "Good night, Meg."

With a sigh, Christine turned away from Meg and continued down the hallway, her tired feet forgetting to carry her to her dressing room and her exhausted mind not even noticing. God, but it had been a long week… and it wasn't over yet. She could only hope that this would die down eventually… but when even her best friend refused to believe her… _Oh, Erik, I'm so sorry! I wish I knew what to do! _ she thought, letting her head drop as she wandered the softly-lit halls of the Opera aimlessly, simply allowing her feet to carry her through the long, silent corridors and into the shadows that waited at the ends of each… Perhaps she should ask Erik to teach her to hide in them as well…

Around one of the corners, however, she found that she had come to the Grand Foyer, and, on the steps below her, Carlotta was holding court. A few other singers were gathered around her, listening raptly to her every heavily accented word. Christine moved down the stairs and hoped to pass unnoticed… that is, until she caught what they were saying.

"I always knew dat little chit was in with him. Always trying to disgrace me, they were, jou know." _Oh, was I? _Christine thought, frowning and intending to move past deliberately ignoring them, although she was having a very difficult time keeping her resentment off her face. Carlotta continued, unaware that the subject of her ridicule was standing not three feet away as she focused all her attention on her 'admirers.' "Well, dat _girl _is worth nothing compared to me – de managers could notta dismiss _me_, of course. And dat Ghost, he was very angry, dat scheming bastard…"

_Smack!_

Carlotta had been interrupted rather rudely by a hard, harsh slap across the face. Completely shocked, the pompous soprano looked around to find the culprit of such a heinous crime and found one very livid Christine Daaé standing in front of her.

"How _dare _jou…!" Carlotta began, puffing up in anger and indignation.

"You deserved it! How dare _you_ speak of me that way? I have never done a thing to garner such despicable treatment – never! And there is no cause to speak of him like that either! Anything he could have said against you was completely justified!"

"Jou little minx!" Carlotta snarled, then suddenly turned back to the two or three shocked singers still watching the argument. "What did I say? Dis girl is clearly in leagues with dat horrid…"

"No!" Christine snapped. "Do not say another word against him or so help me, I'll…" Christine trailed off, unable to think of a decent threat, being much unpracticed at that sort of thing. "You don't know him. So keep your mouth _shut_!"

With that, Christine stormed off, realizing that by saying 'You don't know him,' she had more or less sealed her fate, but not caring. She heard Carlotta's shrieked insults and threats, but ignored them. In a few minutes, she realized that her feet had carried her to the stage. The silence of the theater held no secret music for her this time; there was no beauty in the sparse light from the chandelier. The dark quiet pressed in on her, and she sank down onto the black floorboards of the stage and put her face in her hands to hide her tears.

"That was stupid. That was the most completely idiotic thing you have ever done in your life, Christine, and you will regret it. It could even get you fired, you complete _fool_! That's right, just go and assault the prima donna, no one will notice! No one will care! Even if that arrogant, snobbish _witch_ was insulting you… insulting him… oh, God, what have I done?"

Erik was watching her from the flies, and he longed to run to her, gather her in his arms and comfort her. When she had not appeared in her dressing room, he had gone looking for her… but crying alone on the stage had been the last place he had expected to find her. Then again, what was stopping him from going to her…? He didn't want to frighten her… and he didn't want anyone to walk in if he was there. However deserted, the stage was still far more public than her dressing room… Instead, he began to sing softly to her from the flies, a short Italian arietta he had taught her two years ago.

"_Caro mio ben,_

_credimi almen,_

_senza di te languisce il cor_…"

Christine looked up and smiled through her tears; she seemed to be about to call him when another voice called her name first. She jumped to her feet and made an attempt to wipe the evidence of her tears away as the Vicomte de Chagny walked up to her.

"Christine, are you all right? I had to come to talk to Monsieur Lefévre today and I heard something about you and the prima donna…"

"I'm fine, Raoul, thank you." Christine said, smiling up at him in an attempt to ease his mind and have him leave her alone. "It's just been a… difficult few days, that's all."

"What's been bothering you, Christine? Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No, Raoul, you can't help, but thank you." _Please, Raoul, just go home! Just let me be… I don't really want to talk to _anyone_ right now…_

"Won't you tell me what's wrong?" he asked kindly, genuinely worried about his old friend.

Christine knew she could not tell him. She had already broken Erik's trust to tell him about the Angel of Music, and now… now Raoul would simply want to protect her from Erik, just like everyone else…

"I really can't tell you, Raoul… but it's nothing, don't concern yourself… I'm fine, really I am. It was nice seeing you again, but I had better be going…" she took a few steps backwards, but Raoul wasn't finished.

"Christine… please, just tell me…"

"I'm fine, Raoul, really. Good night…" Hurriedly, Christine turned and walked briskly into the shadows of the wings, where suddenly a strong arm wrapped around her. Erik whispered 'shhh!' in her ear and pulled her deeper into the shadows, so that Raoul passed right by them a moment later, calling after Christine and seeming intent on finding out what was wrong.

As soon as he was gone, Erik forced himself to relinquish his grip on Christine, but she turned around, threw her arms around his neck, and burst into tears, sobbing into his shoulder. Erik caught the words 'terrible mess,' 'Carlotta,' and 'couldn't take it' between the sobs, and he had gathered enough to know what had happened. He simply held Christine and let her cry, soothing her gently. He hoped that she would recover enough to sing in the next hour or so – the performance was still on, of course. Something silly like a dispute amongst performers had never stopped a performance before, and in all likelihood never would.

Even so, the performance that night was going to be an interesting one.

* * *

A/N: _Changement_: pronounced chanj-MAH; a small jump in ballet. Start in fifth position (with your feet turned out so your toes are out sideways, one foot in front of the other, and the heel of your front foot pressed against the toes of your back foot). Now, bend your knees (crucial if you don't want to hurt yourself) and jump straight up in the air, squeezing your legs together, and when you land (also remembering to bend your knees and not pop your heels up) you should have switched feet so that the foot that was in front is now in back, still in fifth. Tada!

"Caro mio ben": An Italian arietta written in the 1780's by Giuseppe (or possibly Tommaso, the composers may have been switched) Giordani. It is in the key of E-flat major (three flats; A, B, and E) and is one of the first songs that classical voice students learn (me included). It is very, very pretty - actually, I prefer just the simple tune on a vowel rather than the words. In any case, the words I used in this chapter translate roughly to "My dear beloved / believe me at least / without you my heart languishes." Something along those lines.

The next chapter will be up Friday, as always. Thanks very much for reading, and please let me know what you think! --Kyrie


	14. Expressing the Inexpressible

A/N: Wow, this is annoying. FF's stopped sending messages. Hopefully the kinks will be worked out by the time I send out my next chapter... although personally I'm looking forward to getting a heap of things I've already read in my inbox once they fix it.

Ahem. Thanks very much to sunset.rising, Katherine Silverhair, mikabronxgirl, and draegon-fire for reviewing in spite of FF's spazztic-ness. And Hilary, how 'bout you update "Crimson Rose" if I update this one?

This chapter was evil. Pure, complete, utter evil. There are about two lines of dialogue in it. Ugh. I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

Chapter 14: Expressing the Inexpressible

_14th September 1881_

_"Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent."_

How right Victor Hugo was when he said that, Erik thought. He looked at the multitudinous sheets of manuscript paper strewn almost carelessly across the floor of his music room. With a sudden panicked thought, he remembered the first time he had brought Christine here, how easy it would have been for her to simply pick up one of the sheets… and then she would have known…

As though to reproach himself, he picked up the first page of music that caught his eye, throwing it aside in agitation. He remembered composing that piece – it had been right after Carlotta had started tormenting his angel, and he had sung her to sleep… had actually stirred up the courage to touch her… Who would have ever thought that he could be undone so easily by a pretty little soprano?

_An angel_…

Erik picked up the piece of music he had tossed aside and, after hunting around for the other few pages of the little aria and resolving for the thousandth time to do something about the complete and total lack of organization, propped it up on the piano and began to play softly. He smiled as the melody came back to him; he remembered being very pleased with it when he'd written it. The key and intonation were the same as the lullaby he had sung to Christine, although the words held a much different meaning to him… it was one of a hundred songs that his protégé had inspired, one of a hundred that he could never bring himself to show her…

Erik stopped playing suddenly, thinking that the performance ought to have ended by now. But he had already told Christine to go straight home afterwards – she desperately needed rest. His fingers clenched on the keyboard, the white ivory keys creating a dissonant mess of sound, but he did not relinquish his grip. If those blasted ballet rats kept it up at this pace, Christine would slowly be driven mad… and he would be entirely to blame. Christine had been dragged into the world of cruel speculation and scandal because of him. She had hit Carlotta because that harpy had insulted him. Buquet had harassed her because of him. Damn it, but it was all his own fault!

Erik lurched up off the piano bench and stalked off down the long hallway that connected the odd, scattered arrangement of his solitary home. His feet were aggravatingly silent on the worn Persian carpet – for once, he wished he could stomp, to make some sort of sound with his feet, to show exactly how furious he was to the very floorboards…! But his feet had long ago forgotten how to make noise. It was simply one more thing to set him apart from the world of normal men.

He turned suddenly into his library and slammed the door, the loud thud giving him an odd sense of satisfaction. That he could still do, at least. He began to pace back and forth across the room, wracking his brain to try and find some solution to rumors that spread like wildfire. But every pathway he could think of led only to further misery… _oh, Christine_… He should never have involved her with him, never dragged her into the net of the Opera Ghost. She was only going to suffer for it… he ought to simply leave then and there, he ought to turn his back on Paris, just as he had on Persia and Rome and Boscherville… on everything.

In his agitation, Erik knocked one of the huge tomes off its precarious position on the shelf. He picked it up and realized, with a sort of half-smile, that it was the volume of American short stories and poetry that Christine had been so intrigued by the first time she had been here. Aimlessly, he allowed the book to fall open where it would, and a single passage caught his eye immediately.

"_And yet shall Love himself be heard,  
Though long deferred, though long deferred:  
O'er the modern waste a dove hath whirred:  
Music is Love in search of a word_."

Erik dropped the book in a most undignified manner, but he didn't care. _Music is Love in search of a word_… Damn and blast, why did this have to happen to him now? Why now, just when he needed his blind denial the most… For he knew exactly why he had so selfishly pulled Christine into his world, and why he could not now leave and free her.

He loved her. God, but he _loved_ her! She was everything to him… and he could very easily destroy everything for her.

Erik cursed loudly and very colorfully then. He could never hope for anything to come of his foolishness. Christine deserved more than the cold darkness he could offer her… After another few moments of unbearable silence, Erik retreated from his library again and turned to his violin for the answers…

* * *

Raoul de Chagny sat in his brother's box and watched the performance without interest. His thoughts were concentrated entirely elsewhere, and the only time he was able to pay any attention to the action onstage was when Christine was there. Even from that distance, even through the costume and the stage makeup and the acting, he could tell that she was upset. He knew it – she had even admitted it! – and yet she refused to tell him why… The hurt, scared look on her face before she'd run off still swam in front of his eyes, taking the place of Cherubino's antics onstage. Why had she refused to tell him what was wrong? Why had she fled like that? The moment Christine had stepped into the wings, she seemed to have disappeared – he had searched for her for nearly twenty minutes before realizing that he was hideously late for his meeting with Lefévre. Raoul had then nearly sprinted to the manager's office, panted out his apologies, and then sat discussing whether it would be more financially beneficial to give _Coppélia _or _Roméo et Juliette_ next for an entire hour.

Raoul left the box before the curtain calls were given, hoping perhaps to catch Christine in her dressing room before she went home for the night. He was very worried about his old friend… she seemed so distressed! And he wasn't deaf to the rumors that had been going around the Opera recently, either. Something about the infamous Phantom and Christine… Raoul chuckled slightly as he hurried down the wide marble steps in the Grand Foyer. It bordered on the insane, those girls' abilities to concoct ridiculous stories. There were no such things as ghosts, any sensible person knew that. This was the nineteenth century, after all! But in the tales that Raoul had come across, this Ghost was portrayed much more as a man, and Christine… Christine had somehow fallen into his affairs, which of course could only mean trouble.

And what if by some strange stretch of the imagination it was true? What if someone truly was taking advantage of Christine? Raoul had only to look at her, to watch the way she moved and listen to her talk, to know that she was still as innocent and naïve as she had been when she had first come to the Opera at the age of seven. She could very well have gotten herself into trouble, but she was refusing to let him help her!

Her dressing room door was just down the hallway. Raoul intended to talk to her as long as necessary – he wanted to help her. But when he knocked softly on the door, there was no response. Surprised, he tried again, knocking louder this time, but there was still no reply. Finally he tried the doorknob; locked. He listened for a moment at the door, but it didn't take much to convince him – she had already gone.

* * *

"_Glisadde, jeté, ballonné, ballonné, pas de bourrée_… ack!" 

The thousand corrections her mother would have undoubtedly given for her last two counts of eight assaulted Meg all at once as she fell out of step before finishing the third. She muttered angrily to herself as she shuffled very ungracefully back to her starting point and began again, whispering the steps to herself in a sing-song voice to stay on beat. There was no accompaniment for her late-night practice session – there never was. The musicians had long since gone home, and Meg remained, forcing her tired limbs through the movements again and again and again until her feet threatened to fall off if she went up _en pointe_ one more time. But the dimly lit, silent vastness of the empty theater had the same calming effect on Meg that it had on Christine. After another few attempts at the combination, she was able to let her muscles simply carry her through it while her mind wandered elsewhere.

The run of _Figaro_ would be ending soon, and she wondered briefly what they would be performing next. It had been rumored that they would be giving _Coppélia_… that would be nice.

But then, what of Christine? Surely she couldn't rejoin the ballet corps – she hadn't danced in a month and besides, she was a singer now. Meg doubted that the Opera Ghost would be pleased if his student reverted to that selfsame ragtag group of ballet girls that was attempting to drive her up the wall.

The Ghost… Meg desperately needed to talk to Christine about him! What had she meant when she said 'No. I do not know the Phantom. I only know my teacher…' Her teacher and the Phantom were one and the same, they both knew that! Thinking back on the incident, Meg felt horrible for having shouted at Christine when her poor friend had gotten nothing but torment all week… but perhaps Christine's biting responses had hurt just as much as her own questions. _I would not expect you to understand_…! Meg was only afraid of losing her best friend…

What was the Phantom to her, then? Was he still an angel? Was he simply her teacher? Or was there something that Meg was missing? What could possibly tie Christine, the sweet little ingénue, to the Phantom, a ghost, a trickster… a threatening shadow? What had caused Christine to defend him in front of Carlotta, why had the diva's words provoked such an uncharacteristic reaction? There were just too many questions!

Meg's toes were beginning to protest as she _bourréed_ across the stage for the twelfth time that night. One more time, she told herself. One more time, and then she would go home. Her questions would have to wait for tomorrow.

* * *

"_Caro mio ben_

_Credimi almen_

_Senza di te languisce il cor_…"

Christine sang softly to herself as she waited for the teakettle to whistle, extremely grateful to be home. She settled back into her chair with a sigh, closing her eyes and trying to blot the day's tribulations out of her memory.

It was far easier said than done.

What had possessed her to rise up against Carlotta… to _hit_ her? What in God's name had she been thinking? It was very possible that the prima donna would persuade the manager to fire her now! It was the most idiotic thing she'd ever done, of that she was certain. And yet… and yet she knew exactly why she had done it.

_Erik_.

Carlotta's insults still rang in her ears. Christine was positive that she had been about to call him a 'horrid monster'… and that simply wasn't true! He was anything but a monster, and she could not bear to hear him called one… to hear him insulted! _Scheming bastard_… _a disaster beyond imagination_… _a monster_… none of it had anything to do with him. None of it.

A soft smile spread across her face as she remembered the beautiful sound of Erik's voice floating down towards her from the flies… she wished that Raoul had not found her then, so that she could have called Erik down…

At the thought of Raoul, Christine groaned. Now there would be one more person to answer to, one more guardian watching her, asking her questions… Meg, Madame Giry, Carlos… and now Raoul. She knew that they all meant well, that they all only had her well-being at heart, but still… their protection was almost suffocating. Why couldn't they simply trust Erik as she did? And why did they have to keep asking her questions she could not answer?

"_Il tuo fedel_

_Sospira ognor_

_Cessa, crudel,_

_Tanto rigor!_"

The teakettle whistled suddenly, jerking Christine from her reverie. Automatically, she got up and poured herself a cup of tea, thinking the thing to do was really go to bed. Something told her that the next few days would be even longer than the previous few…

If that was even possible.

* * *

A/N: The poem that Erik found was "The Symphony" by Sidney Lanier in 1875. It was begging me to include it.

_Coppélia_: a sentimental comedic ballet first performed in 1870 at the old Paris Opera House. Its success was interrupted by the Franco-Prussian War and the Paris Commune, but today it is the most performed ballet at the Opera Garnier.

I shall attempt to explain Meg's dance routine. Start in fifth position (remember from the last chapter?), then bend your knees and jump to the side with a sort of brushing motion, landing back in fifth (_glissadde_). Now, brush your back foot out, jump, and land on it with your other leg in _coupe_ (that is, bent at the knee with your foot pointed and held against your other ankle) and don't fall over (_jete_). Now step on the foot you had in _coupe_ and kick the other leg out to the side (_ballonne_). Do that twice. You should end a _ballonne_ with the opposite foot in _coupe_; now, step back on that foot, side with the other foot, and front with the first (_pas de bourree_). A regular _bourre_ is when a dancer is _en pointe_ or _en eleve_ (that is, on the balls of their feet rather than their toes) and sort of shuffles across the stage with really really tiny little steps.

Oh, yes, _Romeo et Juliette_: an opera by Charles Gounod, first performed in 1867, and based off of William Shakespeare's tragic play.

And the second verse of "Caro mio ben" is translated as follows: "Your faithful one / always sighs / cease, cruel one / so much punishment." Along those lines.

Well, that's it for the notes, I think! Thanks for reading - please let me know what you think! Questions, comments, concerns, tips, are all quite welcome! Although since messaging's down I don't know how long it'll take for me to get back to you...

--Kyrie


	15. Juliette

A/N: Ack... Boston creme dougnuts plus keyboard equals difficulty... Anyway, it's Friday again! Yay! Thank God, I thought I was going to go mad... if anyone else has had a rough week, I hope this helps. Thanks to HDKingsbury, draegon-fire, LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath, Kinetic Asparagus, MadBrilliant, sunset.rising, and elbo for their reviews. MadBrilliant, I'm glad you like the characterization - I worked hard on it! And elbo, I hope I'm getting the French right, since I don't actually speak French. Getting a review in another language was fun, though! And HD... well, just thanks. A lot - I mean, really a lot.

Ahem. I hope you like this chapter... and what happens in it is believable... I think it is...

* * *

Chapter 15: Juliette

_15th September 1881_

The first thing Carlotta Giudicelli did the day after the chorus girl had assaulted her was march into the manager's office and demand Christine Daaé's removal from the payroll.

"She attacked me! Dat insolent _girl_ hit _me_, in defense of dat foul ghost! I _demand_ that jou fire her _dis instant!_"

Lefévre sighed: he had already been informed of the incident by someone who made a far more convincing point to exactly the opposite effect.

"I'm sorry, Signora, but I cannot do that. I can't simply fire the poor girl because of this."

"Yes, jou can!" Carlotta snapped, furious. The old fool dared to oppose her!

"No, Signora, I cannot. There is also no time to audition another chorus girl at the moment – she will have to stay."

"It's dat ghost, isn't it? Dat _creature_ has given jou another one of his stinking notes!"

"Nonsense, Signora Giudicelli. Now, there is work I must do, and you will be missed at rehearsal, madame – they cannot start without their star."

That placated Carlotta enough for the time being, and she went off to rehearsals with her nose in the air. She would simply have to think of a better way to torment the girl if she was to stay.

Inside the office, Lefévre sighed again, as he was prone to do, and leaned heavily back in his chair. Temperamental prima donnas had _not_ been what he had signed on for with this job…

"_Merci_, monsieur. You will not regret your decision, I assure you." a haunting voice said from somewhere near the ceiling.

Lefévre jumped and looked around nervously, but the voice did not say anything else. He settled back into his chair once more and began looking over the accounts, thinking that he hadn't bargained for ghosts either.

* * *

_17th September 1881_

The next opera was to be _Roméo et Juliette_; it was announced after the curtain fell that Saturday. Rehearsals would start the following Monday and continue through the last two weeks of _Le Nozze di Figaro_ before starting in earnest after the run of _Figaro _concluded. Roles were assigned, librettos distributed, and the cast dismissed for the night.

For the most part, Erik approved of the casting. Piangi was not assigned the role of Romeo; that part was given instead to a much younger tenor by the name of Julien Emory. The boy was talented, and shared a good deal of his demeanor with that of the role he was portraying. And it would do Piangi good to be taken down a few pegs and play Count Capulet for awhile. Mercutio, Tybalt, and Stéphano were all satisfactory as well. As far as he could tell, there was only one error in the casting: Juliette.

They were giving the part of Juliette to La Carlotta. It really was only to be expected, but _Juliette_? Juliette should have a charming, light voice, a silvery tone… that harpy of a woman would ruin the production!

Now Christine… Christine's voice would have been perfect. Hadn't they remembered her audition? Had they forgotten her so soon? His protégé was a true coloratura and worthy of the title; the only role Erik could ever see Carlotta doing any justice to was Brünnhilde.

Erik swept silently out of the wings once all the performers had gone, intending to inform Lefévre that there would be a change in casting.

* * *

_22nd September 1881_

Christine blinked when she saw the music that Erik had set her for her lesson that evening. He had taken her libretto when they had first come into his music room, rifled through it for the correct page, and propped it up on the piano before starting her arpeggios. As Christine warmed up, she found herself staring at the music on the piano rather than Erik's fingers on the keys, for the music Erik had chosen was the duet from Act II… Romeo and Juliette's duet. Wouldn't it be better if she learned "L'heure s'envole," the chorus piece from Act I, rather than "O nuit divine," which she would not sing at all?

"Erik…" she asked once they had finished with her exercises. "Why am I to learn the duet…? I don't sing it…"

"You may very well find that you will have great use of it, Christine." Erik replied.

Christine's eyebrows flew up in surprise. Did Erik mean for her to take Carlotta's place in the production? Surely not! It was already cast… what was there to do about it?

"Me? But Erik, I'm in the chorus, I don't…"

"Lefévre made a grave mistake in casting La Carlotta as Juliette. I intend to show him his error, and exactly what should be done to correct it."

"And how do you propose to do that?" Christine asked, crossing her arms and looking skeptically down at Erik on the piano bench.

"One of my infamous notes tends to suffice."

"That won't work, Erik, it'll only get both of us in further trouble." Christine said with a sigh, sitting down beside him at the piano. "Monsieur Lefévre seems to have taken to turning a blind eye to your notes of late. The _corps de ballet_ is entirely another story, though…"

Erik cursed inwardly when Christine pointed out that rather major catch in his plan. His notes had already caused her enough grief.

"Well, I suppose I could arrange for Carlotta to meet with a disaster…" He said, as though it were an afterthought.

"Erik! You couldn't possibly…" Christine trailed off when she turned sharply round to look at him and saw the smirk on his face, the smile in his dark eyes. He was only joking.

Christine collapsed against his shoulder as she began laughing uncontrollably, extremely relieved that he hadn't been serious. Erik smiled and chuckled slightly, glad that he had been able to make her laugh after everything she had faced over the past several days.

"Well, this piece will be a good exercise for you, Christine, even if you do not sing it in this production." he said once she had stopped laughing. "Shall we continue the lesson?"

"Yes, of course, Erik… I'm sorry…" Christine replied, getting to her feet again, her cheeks slightly pink.

"Don't be. There's no harm done."

"No… these lessons do me a lot of good, really." she added quietly before they both turned their minds back to the music.

* * *

_7th October 1881_

Rehearsals for _Roméo et Juliette_ started in earnest as soon as the curtain closed on _Figaro_ for the last time. Now, with less than a week left before opening night, the Palais Garnier was a flurry of activity; the dancers and actors were always hard at work, practicing their steps or memorizing recitative and blocking. Stagehands painted sets and hoisted backdrops into the flies; costumers raced to finish the multitude of masquerade costumes for the opening scene.

At present, the general singers were all crowded off to one side as Carlotta and poor Emory sang through the duet on a half-finished balcony set. Reyer was beginning to get extremely flustered.

"No, no, _no_, Signora, you mustn't sing this as though you are Carmen!" he snapped after Carlotta very nearly belted one particular passage for the fourteenth time.

"_Carmen_? How dare jou compara me to dat vulgar opera!" Carlotta huffed indignantly.

Reyer was not in any mood to be patient with the diva today, however. This was his favorite opera, and the woman was making a mockery of it! There had to be some way to show her how it should be sung properly…

"Mademoiselle Daaé!" Reyer called suddenly, remembering her audition for the chorus and how he had wished that she could be given a higher position. Perhaps…

Startled, Christine stepped forward, holding her libretto tightly and doing her best to ignore the glare that Carlotta was giving her.

"Do you perhaps know this particular duet? I believe your voice would make an excellent example for Signora Giudicelli."

"I… yes, I do, monsieur."

Up in Box Five, Erik decided that he would leave Reyer a note of gratitude for a change. This was perfect!

"Wonderful. Signora, do pay attention. Miss Daaé, from Juliette's entrance, if you please."

Reyer played her a bar of introduction, and then Christine started in on the song. She sounded slightly nervous at first, but then she relaxed and her voice soared. By the time Emory joined her for the song's climax, she had far exceeded even Erik's expectations.

"Bravisima, mademoiselle!" Reyer cried above the burst of applause that followed the end of the song. Christine blushed modestly, smiling.

"Well." said a thoroughly non-impressed Carlotta. She had climbed down from the balcony and was marching over towards Christine. "Well, if jou think dat dis… dis _ingénue_ can do better, then let her. I will notta stand to be insulted like dis. I am _leaving_." She swept past Christine and made for the wings, but not before she had grabbed Christine's libretto and tossed it into the air so that all the pages scattered across the stage.

"Oh my." Reyer said as Christine began to collect the papers. "Here, Miss Daaé, use this one for the day. It will take too long to get yours back in order right now, I daresay… and, do you, by any chance, know any more of the role?"

"I know most of it, monsieur." Christine answered as she took the new libretto from him.

"Well! What a stroke of luck… I shall have to speak to Monsieur Lefévre about it but… as long as Signora Carlotta is… absent, I believe you would make a most excellent Juliette."

"Thank you, monsieur. Thank you very much!" Christine said, beaming.

"Yes, Reyer, thank you. You have saved me a month's worth of headaches." Erik said quietly to himself, absolutely amazed at this stroke of luck.

Christine stayed behind at the end of rehearsal to collect stray pages of her libretto and attempt to put them back in order using Reyer's as a guide. She hummed softly to herself as she hunted through the dark wings for them, still smiling widely. It was completely unbelievable, what had happened that afternoon. Who would ever have thought that Reyer would have chosen to use her – to use anybody, really – as an example for Carlotta! She had never heard of someone doing that before, but she was extremely glad it had happened. She supposed she also had Carlotta to thank for this – her need to be in the spotlight had caused her to forbid anyone to be her understudy, and the idea of being taught by a little chorus girl must have been infuriating for the diva. Christine chuckled and shook her head, remembering the incensed look on Carlotta's face as she had stormed off. In all likelihood, she would pay for this chance she was getting later on, but… well, there wasn't much she could do about that now.

Pulling what she thought was the last page of her libretto out from under a set piece it had wedged itself under, she straightened her pile of papers and turned around towards the piano on the edge of the stage. She was looking down at her script as she walked, thinking about what Erik would say when she saw him later that evening, when an all too familiar pair of boots appeared in front of her.

"Good evening, Monsieur Buquet." she said, looking up and speaking to the flyman with a coldly polite tone of voice.

That only made his grin widen as he chuckled, staring down at her.

"Congratulations on your raise in status, Christine."

"Thank you." she said stiffly, then sidestepped him and walked over to the back of the piano, spreading her papers out onto the top and trying to organize them. Buquet was not one to be ignored, however.

"You can't pretend that your beloved Phantom has nothing to do with this." he said smoothly.

"The Opera Ghost had nothing to do with it." she replied truthfully, still looking at her libretto. This was pointless; she'd have to try and sort it out later. It was more important to get away from Buquet.

"Oh, didn't he? Come now, Christine, you can admit it. Why else would Reyer have called you out like that, hmmm? Your precious _angel_ threatened him into it."

Christine turned around and was about to give him what for when she realized – too late – that he had snuck up right behind her. The moment she turned around, he pressed his hands into the top of the piano on either side of her, effectively pinning her to the high-backed upright. She leaned back against the piano as much as she could, hoping that all the weight on the instrument would cause the wheels beneath it to roll out from under them, but no such luck.

"Get off me, Buquet!" she snapped angrily, although unable to keep the fear from her eyes.

He only laughed. Truly angry now, Christine tried to push him off her, but he only caught her hands and held her tightly by the wrists.

"Let go of me!" she cried, trying madly to free her hands.

"Call your little friend first, girl. Tell the Ghost to come here, and _maybe_ I'll let you go."

Buquet leaned over her, pressing his face horribly close to hers. Christine wanted nothing more than to get as far away from him and his disconcerting smile as possible. In a last attempt, she threw her shoulder against his chest and pressed all her weight against him as hard as she could. Surprised, Buquet overbalanced and let go of her hands.

Just as Christine sprang aside, a door in the wings slammed open. They both looked up towards the sound and saw an unmistakable cloaked silhouette framed in the light from the hallway. Buquet's leer returned to his dirt-streaked face, filling Christine with both fear and intense dislike.

"_Merci tellement, ma chéri_." he said sarcastically, then ran towards the door and the figure standing in it.

"Erik!" Christine said softly, suddenly terrified that Buquet would really catch him… but she needn't have worried. The moment the flyman reached the door, Erik was gone.

"_Damn_! Where did you go, you clever Phantom you, ol' Joseph just wants a word with you…"

As Buquet searched the wings and hallway and his language became increasingly vulgar, Christine backed up to the piano, grabbed her libretto, and made for the other door. She was so tense that she nearly screamed when Erik suddenly appeared in front of her.

"Erik, there you are…" she whispered shakily, very glad to see him.

Erik smiled at her, motioned for her to be quiet, and led her off through a passage behind one of the curtains that Christine had never seen before. Puzzled, she was about to ask him where he was taking her, but then Buquet might have heard her, and besides, she trusted Erik. He could lead her all the way to the North Pole and she would follow.

* * *

A/N: And, cue fluff! Yep, it's starting up (finally!!!). Just a few of my usual notes...

Coloratura: a very high and acrobatic soprano with a range extending to the high F, often characterized by runs, trills, and cadenzas. Most of the actresses who have played Christine on Broadway are coloraturas - Rebecca Pitcher, the current Christine, is a lyric coloratura. (At least, I hope most of them are coloraturas, since I think I'm one...)

Brunnhilde: Oh, c'mon, you know this one! From _Die Walkurie_, the one with the blonde braids and the spear and the horned Viking helmet? That one. Since Wagner's best-known work premiered in 1870, I couldn't resist the reference.

And... I think that's it. Right, back to the boston creme. Thanks very much for reading - please let me know how I'm doing! Reviews always make my day.

--Kyrie


	16. Paris After Dark

A/N: It's Friday again, huzzah! Does anyone else ever feel like the week has been endless and flown by at the exact same time? Anyway, to my point: thanks so much for all your reviews! angelofmusicx0, Mini Nicka, Kathryn Glover, mikabronxgirl, sunset.rising, Luckii.Jinx, GT of Kinetic Asparagus, and HDKingsbury, you're all wonderful. And to everyone who's read this, even if you haven't left me a review - this story is about to surpass my old, completed one in number of hits! You guys rock.

So, right. On to the chapter!

* * *

Chapter 16: Paris After Dark

_7th October 1881_

As they moved in silence through the dark passageways that wound their way all through the foundation of the Opera, Erik heard Christine's breathing return to normal, although she did not loosen her grip at all. Buquet would pay for this… for all of it. He had started the whole damned rumor in the first place.

But he had mistaken the reason that she clung to him so hard now. Christine watched the passageway around them closely as the grey stony walls rolled by beside them. Their shadows, cast by the dim light of a lantern Erik had lit near the tunnel's entrance, flickered across the walls, floor and ceiling, a pair of yawning black spaces, always shifting, always changing, never predictable. Christine's feet echoed slightly on the hard floor, although she noticed that Erik's footsteps made no sound at all; come to think of it, they never had. The lantern that Erik held out in front of them swung back and forth slightly as he walked, shooting golden rays of light through the musty, still air pressing in on them.

Perhaps she should have been scared; had she been there alone, she most certainly would have been terrified. But Christine was not alone, and never had been since he had begun to teach her two years ago. And although Erik seemed determined to show her that there was absolutely nothing about the angel in him, she still disagreed a little. He was her protector, her teacher, her friend… she was safe near him, she was _happy_ near him. And so she squeezed his hand to keep him close to her, so that she would not lose him in the dark, and as silent appreciation for everything he had done for her.

Finally, they rounded a last corner and Christine was confronted with something she had not expected to see – her dressing room. Erik had taken her to the reverse side of the mirror… the place he had watched her from for over two years. Without a word, he released the mechanism keeping the mirror-door closed and motioned for her to step into the room before him. For a moment, however, she did not move. She was staring into the dark passageways that branched off from the one they were standing in, trying to discern anything recognizable through the gloom. Erik had taken her through the center one to reach his home before… right?

"Erik, where do all these other tunnels lead?" she asked, her voice echoing off the walls around them.

"Shhh, Christine, someone might hear." Erik whispered, and as his voice ricocheted around the passageways, Christine suddenly understood how he had been heard in dark, deserted corners of the Opera. There must be secret entrances to these passages all over the lower floors; anything he said would carry easily to any group of performers bold enough to stray near them.

With a nod of understanding, she stepped through the mirror into her dressing room, from Erik's world of fantasy and illusion, of night, to her own familiar, tangible realm. She blinked several times before her eyes adjusted to the warm light of the gas lamps, realizing that she hadn't properly noticed just how dark it was in the passageways.

"The tunnels lead nearly everywhere on the ground floor of the Opera… and the five floors below."

"How did they get there? I doubt they were part of Garnier's original plans." Christine asked with a slight laugh, tilting her head to one side and smiling up at him.

"No, they weren't. But I felt that this grand palace of an opera house ought to have a ghost… they add character to buildings, you know." Erik replied, sounding as though he were halfway between joking and seriousness.

Christine laughed, causing Erik's smirk to widen into a true smile; the bell-like clarity of her voice carried over even into her laughter…

"I doubt any other building in the world has a ghost like you, Erik." she said, still chuckling. Erik could only smile at what he hoped was a compliment.

"Those tunnels… my home… I doubt Garnier knows about them at all. I built them myself, without his knowledge… and as the construction spanned fourteen years, it was fairly easy to do. It's given me a place to hide from the world." he added bitterly.

Christine realized that what might have been a light, tender moment had been ruined. Saddened for a reason she couldn't quite discern, she lowered her eyes, wondering why he would want to stay concealed five floors beneath the ground, even if it was in a 'grand palace of an opera.'

"Erik…" she said suddenly, raising her head again, "It's late, dark out even, and no one will be around…" she smiled at the puzzled look on Erik's face as he tried to fathom what she was on about, and took a step forward so that she stood very close to him. "…perhaps you would like to see me home?"

Erik raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"Christine, you can't possibly be serious about walking home. Remember what happened last time you…"

"Well, if I meet an angel every time I walk home in the dark, I ought to start doing it more often."

Erik stared down at her, extremely surprised at her positively playful tone of voice. She smiled questioningly up at him, waiting for his reply. He knew that he could not possibly refuse her, especially since he knew that she did walk home more often than not, and he dreaded to think what would have happened if he had not been there that night… but still…

"Christine… I… I can't…"

"Erik, don't be silly. I don't know why you feel you have to hide from the rest of the world, but… I promise you, no one will see us."

Erik had to stop himself from openly staring at her. Don't know why he'd had to… wasn't it staring her in the face? Wasn't it obvious? He stared at the floor, unable to look at her. Why did she keep insisting that he was something he could never be?

"Please?" she asked finally. Christine really didn't have any idea why she was asking him to do this… perhaps she simply needed a chance to talk to him away from the Opera House.

He looked up again, and for a moment she was afraid that he would refuse, but he suddenly smiled.

"All right, Christine, you win."

Christine smiled up at him, then quickly threw her cloak around her shoulders and stuffed her libretto into her bag. She pushed open the door and stepped out into the hall, waiting for Erik to follow her. He hesitated for a moment, but then went into the hall after her and shut the door behind them with a click.

The Opera House was deserted by now, or at least, almost deserted. As the two of them walked out towards the Grand Foyer, someone saw them, but said nothing. Madame Giry only sighed sadly when she saw the look of pure delight on Christine's face as she talked quietly to Erik. One had to give the girl credit, Adele thought as she watched them the Opera; she had gotten Erik out into the world of men at last. Perhaps it was fitting that Reyer assigned her the role of Juliette… she was caught up in her own age-old feud, had even possibly found her own star-crossed love… and the poor girl didn't even know it. Adele could only hope that this particular tale would not end in tragedy…

* * *

The night was brisk; crisp, orange October leaves swirled across the streets, casting little dancing shadows in the light of the full moon. The wind whipped up the Avenue de l'Opéra, causing Christine's fine blue cloak and Erik's thick black one to sweep back and blow out behind them. Erik was now glad that he had not thought to retrieve his fedora hat before they'd gone, since it would have blown away several minutes ago, even though without it his mask was glaringly obvious in the soft moonlight. He let Christine lead the way, as she had a far clearer idea of where they were going than he did. He had not ventured into this more civilized part of Paris since the Commune.

Christine walked along beside Erik in silence, her feet automatically taking her towards the Rue de Rivoli – she had gone home this way so many times that she hardly needed to think about it. Instead she focused on the quiet man beside her, tried to think of something to say.

Suddenly, a few blocks away, the great bells of Notre-Dame cathedral began to toll out the hour. It was ten o'clock, but Christine paid no attention to that. She was watching Erik – he had stopped and tilted his head towards the sound, and was listening, enraptured, to the sweet, rolling tones of the many bells. Christine smiled, glad that Erik was really enjoying himself.

"Haven't you heard them before?" she asked when the last ringing note had died away, "Some say those bells are the heart of this city."

"I would not be surprised… But you can't hear them under the Opera; I haven't heard them for years now." he said with a smile, now very glad that he had given in and come along.

"Really? Rehearsals are interrupted by them all the time… the sound is very much muffled in the theater, but still… we are so close…"

"So close, and yet so far." Erik muttered.

"What do you mean?" she asked, puzzled. Why would he say something like that?

"I have never been inside the cathedral… I've seen it, yes, but only from this side of the Seine. I doubt my presence would be much appreciated there…"

"Nonsense, Erik! I wouldn't want to go in at this hour of the night, but we could at least go see it." she said matter-of-factly, and then turned and set off towards the cathedral, leaving Erik with little choice.

What was she up to? Surely it was not her intention to take him sightseeing now!

But Christine's intentions were entirely different. In truth, she wasn't completely sure what they even were… but yes, she did know. She wanted to get Erik away from the Opera, so that perhaps there, without the overbearing presence of the flying rumors, he might trust her enough to tell her why he had shunned the world… maybe even try to work out exactly what it was she felt for him… but all she was getting so far was more questions.

Ten minutes later, they stood on the edge of the bridge that would take them over the Seine and onto _Île de la Cité_, the island where the soaring Gothic towers and spinets of Notre-Dame de Paris stood. Christine leaned against the railing on the bridge, watching the water flow beneath her feet and the silver ripples of moonlight shimmer on the water and the cathedral's magnificent rose windows. Erik, however, stayed firmly on the riverfront street, apprehensive in the shadow of the great house of worship… the kind of place he had never been welcome in. The devil wouldn't ever be allowed in a church, would he? And here especially… Quasimodo hadn't been exactly tolerated – what made it any different for him?

Apparently Christine thought it was different… his eyes left Notre-Dame and drifted over to his protégé, standing lost in thought on the edge of the bridge, a few feet away from him. The wind picked up, tossing her curls back from her face, and Erik saw that her blue eyes were clouded. She pulled her thin cloak tighter around her shoulders and shivered, but the wind seemed to mock her efforts by blowing still harder. He really ought to get her home before she caught cold…

Instead, he stepped silently up behind her and, taking the corner of his own cloak in his hand, wrapped his arm around her. Shivering again, she nestled in closer to him, leaning against his side. After a moment, Christine looked up at him, intending to thank him… but the words never left her mouth. His eyes caught hers and held them captivatingly, and she could only stare up at him, partially shocked. It was then that she knew why Carlotta's insults toward him had infuriated her so, why she was so determined to keep Buquet away from him, why her spirits always lifted at the sound of his voice. Suddenly, in that one instant, she understood the searching, pleading look in his dark eyes… and knew that her own expression must mirror his.

_Why_ hadn't she ever considered it before?

She loved him.

The moment she thought that, Christine felt her cheeks turn bright red and was suddenly extremely grateful for the darkness. She tore her eyes away, hoping that Erik wouldn't notice her blushing.

Erik watched Christine turn away in silence, mentally admonishing himself for hoping that she might care for him… Well, he had better see her home before it got any colder.

"Shall we continue?" he asked dully.

"…Yes… it is a bit cold out, isn't it?" she said, attempting to sound casual. Erik did not reply.

They crossed the bridge to the other side of the Seine, then wound their way through the crisscrossing _rues_ and avenues until they reached the apartment building that housed Christine's flat. Erik accompanied her to the door, waited as she unlocked it, and was about to return to the Opera when she turned back to face him.

"Thank you for coming with me, Erik." she said softly, meeting his eyes and then swiftly lowering them.

"You're welcome, Christine." he answered, almost automatically.

Suddenly, just as he was about to leave yet again, Christine put her hand on his arm, stood on her toes, and kissed him on the cheek. Erik's eyebrows shot up as he stared at her moving back towards the door, her face _very_ pink.

"Good night." she whispered, then vanished into her flat, almost as though she couldn't bring herself to face him after what she'd just done.

Erik stared at her door for a long moment after that. His hand went to his cheek… had she really…? By the time he had turned at last to descend the stairs again, it still hadn't entirely sunk in.

What in blazes had just happened?

* * *

A/N: Notre-Dame de Paris (Our Lady of Paris) was one of the first Gothic cathedrals ever constructed, and possibly the most well-known. It was one of the first buildings to use the flying buttress, although its design was not originally intended to have them. Construction on Notre-Dame began in 1163 and was completed around 1345. And we thought the Paris Opera took a long time to build! 

Ok, here's what's up: I'm about eight chapters ahead of you, perhaps seven with this new update. Because of that, and the overwhelming workload I seem to have all of a sudden, I was planning on taking a break with writing for a bit... until I realized that the chapter I have planned concerning Christmas might be nice, well, around Christmas. So I shall try my utmost to get it to you around Christmas - at least by New Year's, since I'll have vacation to work on it. That will mean more than one weekly update. What do you think?

As always, your reviews are more than welcome and your advice highly valued. Please let me know how I'm doing! Thanks for reading - Kyrie


	17. Heaven's Light

A/N: Yippee!!! I must have done something right again, because I have _nine_ reviews for the last chapter!!! I feel so loved! Thanks to The-Phangirl-of-the-Opera, Katherine Silverhair, Mini Nicka, pony210, Lucia Sasaki, phantomphorever, Luckii.Jinx, HDKingsbury, Lady Wen, and ladyAlyafaelyn for reviewing! You guys are awesome - reviews just make my day!

A quick note before I start - some of you may recognize the title and some of the lines from Disney's _Hunchback of Notre Dame_. I was originally going to use "Heaven's Light" as an actual song in this chapter, but I had already promised myself to keep it authentic... so I just reworked the lyrics a bit, since they work so gosh-darn well.

Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 17: Heaven's Light 

_7th October 1881_

Erik did not return immediately to the Opera, despite the fact that the wind was growing fierce and beginning to blow ominous clouds across the silver moon and bright stars. His fingers were getting numb, but he didn't care. Almost as though they had a mind of their own, his feet carried him along the Seine, and this time he watched the light and the shadows dance on the water. His thoughts, however, were still at the door of Christine's flat… he simply could not believe that she had kissed him! Could she… could she possibly…?

Suddenly, Erik caught sight of a shadow moving towards him on the path, and he immediately stepped off it, concealing himself in the darkness between two of the riverfront buildings. Erik laughed softly when he saw what he was hiding from; a young man and woman were walking slowly down the street, huddled close together against the chill air and clearly paying far more attention to each other than anything else around them. Once they had gone, Erik stepped back out of the shadows and continued towards the Opera, lost in thought again.

Before he had disappeared beneath the ground nearly eleven years ago, he'd seen many such couples walking the streets together… and he'd never even given a passing thought to his being a part of one someday! Never having known love, or warmth, he hadn't even considered it. And now, tonight… hadn't that been exactly what had happened on the bridge to Notre-Dame? Was that why Christine had turned away – dare he even begin to hope that she could care for him?

But then, she didn't know… she didn't know anything about him, about what he'd done, about what he _was_. The rumors were true – he _was_ a monster…

But suddenly an angel – his angel – had smiled at him, had kissed his cheek without a trace of fright… and yes, perhaps he could dare to dream that she might even care for him…

She truly was an angel. Somehow, in only a few seconds, Christine had shown him a little of Heaven… Erik had never truly believed in God… but then again, he thought, as he remembered Christine's shy smile, perhaps he was wrong.

* * *

Erik forgot to enter the Opera by his secret entrance on the Rue Scribe, and so when he entered the Grand Foyer he found Adele Giry waiting, rather impatiently, for him. 

"Good evening, Adele." he said cheerily. "Why are you still here at this hour of the night?"

"I was waiting for you to return from your… walk." she replied stiffly.

"Were you?" he asked, in a tone that said oh-isn't-that-nice in a thoroughly sarcastic manner.

"Erik…" she began, but it seemed that, for once, she was at a loss for words.

"Adele, I must say I am shocked. Usually, you seem to work out your admonishments hours in advance, and yet I find you speechless. I must have done something particularly vile to have upset you this much." Erik joked.

A small smile crossed Madame Giry's face, but she kept her eyes averted.

"What exactly have I done this time?" he prodded, curious now.

"Erik, just… just don't hurt her." Adele finally sighed.

"Hurt her?" Erik asked, raising one eyebrow sardonically. "Adele, why must you always suspect the worst of me? What makes you think I would ever hurt her?"

"Because I know you, Erik, I know your past. Christine does not."

"Are you saying you do not trust me?"

"No, I trust you Erik… I don't know if you could understand…"

"Try me." he replied, slightly irritable, tired of Adele's running circles around him.

"Christine is like a second daughter to me, and a sister to Meg; you know that. She has already lost so much in such a short time – her parents, her adopted guardians… And don't think I haven't seen just how much her connection to you is costing her. I know you mean well, Erik, but… please, for God's sake, don't hurt her."

Erik stared at Adele, at one of the two people on earth that he could actually count as friends, for a long moment before replying, mulling carefully over her words.

"I would never hurt Christine… and I never will. I promise you I will do everything I can to _help_ her."

Adele nodded, and was about to turn away when Erik spoke again, stopping her.

"And Adele… do not make the mistake that you are the only one in this Opera House who loves her." he added quietly, then turned away and vanished into the dark stairwell.

Madame Giry stared after Erik for a long time, and knew that from there on out she would have to keep a very close watch on the both of them.

* * *

_8th October 1881_

Christine awoke to the sound of rain lashing against her windowpane the next morning. She kept her eyes closed, not wanting to get up and face the weather, and curled up more tightly under her warm blankets. They wouldn't really miss her at rehearsal, would they?

Her eyes snapped open when she remembered that they would.

_Oh God_…

She would be playing Juliette, the leading role, and opening night was in _much _less than a week! How would she learn all of the blocking, all the words, all of the recitative that Erik had not yet taught her, by heart in only four more days of rehearsal?

Not waiting another moment, she got up, dressed, and breakfasted as fast as she could, hoping that she might get a chance to speak to Erik before rehearsal if she hurried. Wrapping her scarf securely around her neck, Christine scuttled back and forth across her flat, searching for her umbrella. It was nowhere to be found. Well, she'd just have to get wet while waiting for a brougham, then. She picked up her bag, threw her cloak around her shoulders, and darted out the door, locking it behind her.

After about five minutes outside, she sorely wished she had been able to find her umbrella. In another few minutes, her cloak would be soaked through, and she could barely see the cabs that were passing, let alone call attention to one! She was severely tempted to brave the downpour and walk to the Opera after one whizzed straight passed her and sent a spray of water crashing into her skirt. _At this rate_, she thought, _I'll look like I swam there rather than caught a cab_!

At last, she was able to get the attention of a free driver, although her teeth were chattering when she finally reached her dressing room. Shivering, she stripped off her sodden cloak and hung it over the back of her chair, praying that it would dry before it was time to return home. She dropped her scarf onto her dressing table, as that was not soaked through, and tried to wring some of the water out of the hem of her skirts. After a few minutes, she gave up, grabbed her libretto, and ran to the stage, hoping she would warm up soon…

She did, but only slightly, and only when her clothes finally dried off a bit. By the time rehearsal was over, her head was pounding madly and spinning slightly with all the things she would have to remember… she'd marked all the singing that day, concentrating more on the blocking she was given. Something told her that her voice wasn't up to an entire day of full-out rehearsal… And she wasn't deaf to the muttering in the wings – this sudden change in her status seemed to have simply fueled more rumors… All in all, she was extremely grateful when the cast was dismissed for the night.

A few minutes after rehearsal, Meg stumbled across Christine in the hallway. The moment she saw her friend, any thoughts she might have had of discussing the Phantom any further vanished. Christine was leaning against the opposite wall, her eyes closed, one hand pressed to her forehead, and she looked extremely pale.

"Christine! Are you all right? You really don't look well…"

Christine looked up and gave Meg a weak smile.

"Yes… yes, I'm all right… it was just awfully wet this morning… I'm fine, Meg." she said shakily, although she sounded as though she was trying to convince herself as much as Meg.

"Christine, you _really_ don't look well… come on, let's go back to your dressing room…"

Meg wrapped a steadying arm around her best friend's shoulders, even more worried when she felt her shivering.

"You really must have gotten soaked this morning… what did you do, swim here?" she joked glad when Christine smiled again.

"It was certainly raining hard enough… I'm sorry about this, Meg, I feel so… _silly_…"

"Don't be, you can't help it if you're sick." Meg said cheerily, concentrating on getting Christine to her dressing room.

When they got to the familiar door, Meg opened it and gently steered Christine into her chair.

"I'll be right back, Christine; I'm going to get Maman."

Christine nodded as Meg left again, pressing her shaking hands to her face. Accursed rain… She massaged her temples with her fingertips, wishing her headache would go away… there was too much she needed to remember…

"Was it downstage right… or stage left? Or was it upstage?" she muttered, trying to recall the blocking for one particular scene they'd gone over that afternoon.

"Downstage left." Erik's voice said.

Christine looked up and saw him standing in front of her, and she smiled up at him.

"Thank you."

"Christine, are you all right?" Erik asked abruptly, noting how pale her face was.

"Yes, I'm fine… I just… have a headache…" she smiled reassuringly and got to her feet none too gracefully.

"Are you sure?" Erik asserted, knowing full well that she was _not_ fine.

Christine nodded, her eyes shut as her head stopped spinning from standing up too fast. Of all the times to get sick, this was the absolute _worst_ time she could have picked…

"Shall I take you home, Christine?" he asked, smiling kindly at her.

"No, no thank you… Meg said something about Madame Giry… I…" Christine looked up to meet Erik's eyes and took a step forward. She really ought to say _something_ about the night before… "Erik, I…"

Erik never learned what Christine had been about to tell him, though, for at that moment her knees decided that they would not hold her weight anymore, and they buckled. Erik caught her before she hit the floor, and she collapsed from exhaustion in his arms just as there was a knock at the door and Madame Giry entered.

"Christine? Meg told me you were ill…" she began, but stopped when she saw what had happened.

"She is. Damned fool of a maestro, he should have noticed how off-color she was today… at the very least he could have let her rest for a few minutes!"

"There is much for her to learn in a very short period of time, Erik. He needed her all day today. And I'm surprised you did not intervene, if you noticed it yourself."

"I did not have a discreet way of letting Reyer know… she does not need any more rumors right now." Erik answered quietly.

Adele nodded, pausing for a moment before kneeling next to Christine as well.

"I'll take her, Erik." she said softly, reaching out a hand to shake Christine's shoulder and wake her.

"Take her where? Back to her flat? Back out in that rain? No, Adele, that won't help her. She can spend the night in my home…"

"No! Erik, have you even any idea how improper that is…?"

"Yes, and I don't particularly care." he said gruffly. "She has stayed with me before; nothing will happen to her, I assure you. As difficult as you seem to find it, you can, in fact, trust me with her."

After a long pause, Madame Giry opened her mouth to argue again, but was interrupted by the creak of the door opening behind them once again, and a soft voice calling Christine's name. Meg stepped into the room, her eyes growing round as coins when she saw Erik cradling Christine's limp form on the floor of her friend's dressing room.

She screamed.

"Meg Giry, how many times…?!" Adele cried exasperatedly when her daughter finally fell silent. She did not get any further, though, because Christine groaned softly and opened her eyes.

"Erik?" she whispered when she realized exactly where she was. She craned her neck to look up at him, but his attention was fixed elsewhere. There was an unmistakably worried look on his face, as though he were caught between two fires. And he was staring at the equally horrified face of Meg Giry.

Slowly, Christine sat up, looking between Erik and Meg. He was trapped now – he could not vanish through the mirror, not with Meg and Madame Giry watching. Erik got to his feet, still warily watching Meg, hoping against hope that the foolish girl wouldn't scream again…

"Christine…?" Meg asked nervously.

"He did _not_ hurt me, Meg." she said, slightly irritably. Her brief lapse in consciousness had not done much to lessen her headache. "I fainted; he caught me. I don't know why you must expect the worst of him, Meg, you don't even know him!"

An awkward silence fell for the next few moments. Adele finally helped Christine to her feet, muttering something about getting her home. Christine reached out to grab her cloak, but did not pick it up.

"It's still damp." she said wearily.

Erik immediately pulled his own cloak off his shoulders and wrapped it tenderly around her.

"Here, use mine." he said softly.

Christine turned and smiled at him, pulling the warm black fabric tighter around her, and for a moment Erik forgot that the Girys were there, and he returned her smile, his hand lingering on her shoulder.

Adele tugged gently on Christine's hand, a signal that they ought to be going. Christine's eyes flicked to her and Meg for a moment, then back to Erik as she was led out of the room.

"Thank you." she whispered.

"_Bonne nuit_, Christine… I hope you feel better in the morning." Erik replied just before the door shut and he was finally allowed to revert to his instincts and bolt through the mirror.

* * *

A/N: Word to the wise: That last part was based on personal experience. Never go on a band/chorus trip to Cleveland, Ohio without twelve extra sweaters/jackets/what-have-you, and never, I repeat, _never_, even if your band director forces you, stay out in an amusement park in 40 degree weather in the rain. You will get sick. And it will not be fun. 

Oh, and guess what? I got a part in my school musical! My first named part!!! I get to sing! By myself!!! -happy squeak-

Ahem. Back to more relevant topics: thanks very, _very_ much to everyone who's reviewed! Your feedback is greatly appreciated - reviews make my day! Thanks for reading --Kyrie


	18. I'm Here!

A/N: Whoa! Is that really the time? Sorry this is so late - I had the world's longest voice lesson today (although it was awesome - I started working on "Caro nome" from Rigoletto... that's going to wind up in here sooner or later) and then I had to go watch a play that some friends from school are in (if you ever get a chance to see "Musical of Musicals - The Musical" see it. It is the most hilarious play I've ever seen) and so here I am. Apologies for the delay.

I love reviews! Thanks soooooooooooo much to Marieena, ladyAlyafaelyn, Lucia Sasaki, mad brilliant, Luckii.Jinx (I remembered you this time!), draegon-fire, Lady Wen, Mini Nicka, Kinetic Asparagus, and phantomphorever. HD, I know you're going to send me a review sooner or later, so thanks in advance!

If I might say so, I love this chapter. It was _such_ fun to write! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

* * *

Chapter 18: I'm Here!

_8th – 9th October 1881_

After only a few minutes' worth of persuasion, as she was simply too tired to argue, Christine went home with the Girys that evening, mostly because their flat was closer. All through the short cab ride there, Meg and Christine kept pointedly silent and refused to look at each other. Even so, Meg had to practically chew on her tongue to stop herself from demanding an explanation to what had just happened. Christine, however, did not seem bothered by it in the least.

Once they reached the Giry's flat, Christine was not allowed to sleep for at least another half-hour, during which about three cups of very strong tea were forced upon her and Erik's cloak dried by the little stove. As Meg was still keeping resolutely silent, Christine was more than relieved when she could curl up in a pile of spare blankets on the floor, thank the Girys, and drift off to sleep, Erik's cloak still wrapped around her.

Outside in the pouring rain, someone stood watching Christine's breathing even out through the little window, looking more like a bedraggled cat than a man. Erik did not mind in the slightest, however – the feeling of water flooding his socks and dripping in a constant cascade off the brim of his hat was slowly washing away the burning shame that Meg's scream had afforded him. Both Girys… did they think him a complete monster? Even Adele; Adele knew him better than that! She had to, after all these years! Yes, perhaps she had borne witness to some of his very worst moments, but still… couldn't they see that Christine was more than safe with him? A smile crossed his face as he realized that even then he was playing her guardian angel…

He lost track of how long he stood there watching her sleep, nestled under his cloak, a soft smile on her face. It was only when he dimly registered that his fingers and toes were numb that he finally returned to the Opera. He chuckled to himself when he thought that he must have dripped about twelve liters of water from the Rue Scribe entrance to his 'front door.'

It was only the next morning, when he was searching futilely for a handkerchief, that he regretted his decision to stand out in the pouring rain. And when, after he'd finally found one, he realized that he could not blow his nose and keep his mask on at the same time. Damn, but he felt like a complete idiot!

In a few hours, he left his home and went up to the Opera to see if he could perhaps find a ballet girl's handkerchief and make that 'disappear.' He was distracted, however, by one Joseph Buquet. The stagehand passed right by Erik, but there was a look on the man's face that he did not like at all. Frowning, Erik followed Buquet, silent as a shadow, more and more perturbed as he began to see where Buquet was going, and absolutely livid when he was right.

The damned flyman stopped right in front of Christine's dressing room and began to try and force the door open!

"Let's find your little Phantom, then, _ma chérie_." he muttered to himself with a chuckle.

Fortunately for him, the door remained stubbornly shut, giving Erik the few seconds he needed.

"_I'm here!_" he cried, throwing his voice expertly so that it sounded as though it were echoing down the hallway to Buquet.

It worked. The fool of a stagehand jerked his head up towards the sound and shot off down the hallway after what he believed was the Phantom. Erik had to keep himself from laughing as Buquet vanished down the hallway 'after him;' he hadn't moved at all.

He had to then, though, if he was to keep up the illusion and lure the man to right where he wanted him.

The stage was dark when Buquet crashed through the double doors in the wings, panting slightly after having run after the Ghost. The giant mausoleum of a theater was empty and silent save for his labored breathing, and the only light came from the open doors at the back of the stalls. Buquet turned to look up at Box Five and shook his fist at it.

"A fine chase you've led me on, you bastard, now show yourself!" he ranted madly.

Erik, standing in the flies above and behind him, chuckled softly, then allowed the sound of his laughter to expand and echo through the silent theater, ricocheting off of every ornately carved pillar and cornice, every balcony, every crystal bead on the chandelier. He smiled and trailed off when Buquet was visibly shaken by the maniacal laughter from seemingly nowhere.

"Where are you, you son of a-" he cried, whirling around in a circle on the stage, as though hoping that he would catch a glimpse of the Ghost that way.

"Such language!" Erik chided, cutting him off, sounding as though he was in the orchestra pit. "You would do well to _hold your tongue_."

His last words rang menacingly through the stalls, washing over Buquet like a tidal wave, but the fool was still standing. The Phantom did not mind at all – he could play cat-and-mouse all day, if need be.

The Ghost's deliberately condescending tone did nothing to quiet the stagehand; in fact, he began to curse the air blue.

"Temper, temper!" Erik said with a cold laugh. "No use in getting frustrated, now! After all, what did you expect to gain from chasing me halfway across my Opera House? I was sure that you would have learned by now – since you, of course, are so knowledgeable of my demeanor and intentions – that one should not cross me unless one harbors a death wish?"

It was really far more entertaining than it should be. The idiotic flyman simply kept lunging towards wherever his voice was coming from at that particular time… it was simply too easy!

"_Vous avez le cervau d'un sandwich au fromage!_" Erik shouted, knowing that the insult was slightly ridiculous, but enjoying Buquet's resulting meaningless curses nonetheless.

Buquet's head was spinning. Each sardonic comment, each _word_, even, seemed to come from somewhere else… Instinctually, he kept circling, trying to stay on top of the voice, the voice without a body, without a name, without humanity. There had to be something he could do to gain the upper hand…

"Christine Daaé!" he shouted, seemingly to nothing.

Up in the flies, Erik tensed, but he kept up his cold façade.

"Names are not very threatening things, _monsieur_." he scoffed.

"The chit's yours, in't she?" Erik did not respond, would not respond to such derogatory statements; Buquet leered into the shadows. "Well, you'd better tell that girl to watch her back from now on… if you catch my drift."

Erik caught it, sure enough, and he had to exercise every ounce of self-control he possessed not to kill Buquet on the spot. His death would be attributed to the Phantom… and Christine would know… he couldn't do that. But he _so_ wanted to… his hands curled into fists so tight that his knuckles turned white and his fingernails bit hard into his palms.

"You would do well to leave her alone; that is, _if you value your life_."

He allowed his threat to ring through the theater the same way his laughter had; the words 'if you value your life' echoed and repeated countless times before finally dying away in a menacing hiss of sound.

"That right?" Buquet said, trying to sound challenging in spite of his fear. "Well, I don't see how somebody too damned _cowardly_ to show his face could kill me. Show yourself, you damned ghost! I know you're there!"

"Ah, but of course I'm here!" Erik's voice cried from Box Five; Buquet made to run for the stairs just outside the wings.

"I'm here!" the voice said again from the deep recesses of the stage right wings. Buquet darted across the stage to the sound.

"_I'm here!_" The voice called mockingly from the orchestra pit, the back of the mezzanine, atop the proscenium, beneath the red velvet seats in the stalls, the chandelier, and Buquet tried to reach them all, not even getting halfway there before the voice would call again. For one who tried to stand against the Opera Ghost, this Buquet was none too intelligent…

But suddenly, Erik made a sound that was impossible to control, impossible to throw across the theater, and showed Buquet exactly where he was standing.

He sneezed.

_Damn! Damn and blast!_

Buquet whirled around at the sound of the completely normal, completely real sneeze and saw the slightest of movements in the flies on stage right.

"Not so high and mighty now, are you, _Monsieur le Fântome_?" he said with a laugh.

Erik cursed under his breath as Buquet began climbing into the flies; he'd just lost the upper hand. No matter – he could still kill him if absolutely necessary… but wait… he had a better idea.

Buquet climbed up into the flies faster than he ever had in his life. The Phantom was not moving… he raced down the catwalk, completely unable to believe that he practically had the _Opera Ghost_ at his mercy… With a manic grin, he reached out to grab the cloak, pulled his fist back, ready to strike…

All his hand reached was a fistful of black fabric. Erik, watching from the wings, chuckled as Buquet once again began to spew out an immensely long string of vile curses. He'd simply suspended his cloak from one of the sandbags hanging nearby.

"Next time, you might not catch me in such a good mood, Buquet." Erik snapped, his cold, menacing tone filling the entire theater. "I would watch your own back, were I you."

And with that, Erik slipped out of the wings, shutting the door silently behind him, and returned to his house on the lake. That had been quite enough excitement for one afternoon.

* * *

A/N: That one line in French? If I told you, it wouldn't be half as funny, trust me. Suffice it to say that it's mildly insulting and extraordinarily absurd. Or you could look it up...

Let's see... I'm writing chapter 25 right now, and if I have one (very long chapter) more before the Christmas thing... yikes. I guess I'll be posting a _lot _to actually try and get there!

As always, your feedback is immensely appreciated. Thanks for reading! --Kyrie


	19. Reconciliation

A/N: Ah! I almost forgot that I meant to post another chapter today! Well, here it is. Thanks very much to ladyAlyafaelyn, phantom-jedi1, mika, phantomphorever, Kathryn Glover, Mystery Guest, Luckii.Jinx, Wild Mage Lioness, Mini Nicka, HDKingsbury, draegon-fire, The-Phangirl-of-the-Opera, sunset.rising, Kinetic Asparagus, Lucia Sasaki, and Darkness' Creation for reviewing. That's the most reviews I've ever gotten for one chapter! Thanks, guys! And, without further ado, chapter 19!

* * *

Chapter 19: Reconciliation

_9th October 1881_

"I expect you'd like an explanation for what happened yesterday." Christine said quietly.

She and Meg were alone in Meg's tiny little bedroom, with the door closed; Christine had just finished folding up the blankets she had slept in the night before and was fingering the edge of Erik's cloak.

Meg looked up at her when she spoke, staring calculatingly at her friend for a long moment. Christine was determinedly not looking at her; rather, she was focusing on the thick black cloak she held tightly in her arms.

"Yes… I would." she finally answered, sitting down on her bed and motioning for Christine to join her.

"Erik has been teaching me for two years now… but I've only ever _seen_ him this past month. He would _never_ harm me, Meg, you must understand that… When those awful rumors started, I began to realize the scale of the problem I'd gotten myself into…"

"What do you mean by that, Christine? Are you scared of him, or…"

"No! No, Meg, I'm not afraid of him. _You_ are. You, and the other ballet girls, and every other person at the Opera is _terrified_ of him for no reason. There _is_ no Phantom of the Opera, Meg."

"You can't possibly keep denying that! I saw him in your dressing room just last night!" Meg cried angrily.

"Erik is _not_ a ghost. Erik is a living, breathing man, a _man_, Meg. He's not someone to tell stories about, to look around for constantly, to squeal at every passing shadow because of! We have created the Ghost, the performers and stagehands and even Monsieur Lefévre, all of us! Just because we've caught glimpses of someone we don't understand! Obviously he's there, but every ridiculous story about him is blown so completely out of proportion… it's just a drama we've created for ourselves that doesn't stay on the stage! And goodness knows, he only encourages it. I'm not sure why he plays the Ghost, but I _do_ know that he would never hurt anyone."

"_How_ do you know that? Christine, he's lied to you once – how do you know he's not lying to you now?"

Christine didn't answer for a moment. She knew precisely why she believed Erik now, but she couldn't bring herself to tell Meg, not when she was still so unsure of it herself…

"You don't, do you?" Meg asked, sounding very worried.

"I believe him, Meg." she answered with conviction.

"But _how_, Christine?! How do you know who to believe – the ballet girls or the Phantom? He threatens the manager enough…"

"_You don't know him!_" Christine cried exasperatedly, almost sounding as though she were near tears. "You don't know him, Meg, you don't understand!"

"I don't understand what, Christine? Explain it to me!"

"I'm not sure I can…" she whispered, looking back down at his cloak, reverently touching the miniscule embroidery along the neckline.

But she didn't need to explain anything. Meg knew. She knew in that one moment of silence that Christine did _not_ think of the Phantom as merely her teacher…

That didn't change the fact that the Phantom was dangerous…

"Christine…" she began.

"Yes?" Christine answered, not looking up, expecting another rebuke.

It never came. Meg paused for a moment before answering, then sighed.

"Be careful?"

Christine looked up and smiled at her friend at last.

"I always am."

* * *

Adele could not help but overhear a good deal of the girls' conversation, and came to the same conclusion as her daughter at the end. Christine truly had fallen in love with Erik, then. It seemed to her as though neither of them had been able to admit it yet, though…

She found herself, against her better judgment, listening intently to Christine's argument. It seemed perfectly sound to her – the ballet girls were far too superstitious for their own good. But still, even if perhaps Erik wasn't dangerous now, he had been in the past… and he could easily be again. To know the Opera Ghost was to walk along the edge of a sword; one slip and who knew what could happen?

Or was she putting too much emphasis on Erik's past? Yes, he had pulled a few dangerous stunts at the Opera – dropping sandbags and curtains on people, for instance – but no one had ever been hurt… was he merely enforcing what the rumors made him out to be? Had he truly changed?

When Adele heard the desperation in Christine's voice as she tried to convince her daughter of Erik's trustworthiness, she resolved to apologize to Erik the next time she saw him. She truly had been too harsh towards him recently… and if Christine trusted him so explicitly, then she would simply have to believe her.

* * *

_10th October 1881_

After another very long day of rehearsals, Adele Giry spent about ten minutes searching for Erik. It did not take her long to find him, as she knew quite a few of the secret passageways just about as well as the resident ghost himself, and he wasn't far from a certain singer's dressing room.

"Erik…" she called softly to the shadow a little way down the passage from her.

Erik turned and straightened up at the sound of his name, looking slightly resigned when he saw Madame Giry.

"Adele, as much as I would love to, I do not have the time to match wits with you once again, so if you will excuse me…" he said stiffly, starting to turn away again.

"I'm not here to tell you what to do, Erik, I'm here to apologize."

He stopped when he heard that, then walked towards Adele and past her a short distance down the passageway. Assuming that it would be harder to overhear their conversation from there, she followed him and began to speak.

"I do trust you, Erik, truly I do… I should not have worried so much about Christine. She is capable of asking for help if she needs it… and I don't think she will. I am sorry I reprimanded you."

Erik simply nodded, looking a little too surprised for words at first.

"What brought about this change of heart?" he asked finally.

"Christine."

Erik raised an eyebrow, puzzled. Adele continued.

"She trusts you completely… she _loves_ you, Erik." she added quietly.

He did not respond to that. How could he? He wanted so much to believe that Adele spoke the truth… but that wasn't possible. Christine could not love him, she just couldn't… she did not know who he really was, _what_ he really was… No, no, it couldn't be true…

"Thank you, Adele… now if you'll excuse me, Christine is expecting me. Good evening." he said curtly and turned off down the passageway again.

Madame Giry sighed. Poor Erik – he didn't believe a word she'd just said, did he?

* * *

A/N: Silly Erik. Listen to Mme. Giry - she knows what she's talking about! Something tells me you guys will love the next chapter... hehe... And I'll get that Christmas chapter up asap, I promise, although it's looking closer to New Year's right now, just by the sheer number of chapters between you and it. Whoops.

So, what do you think? Please let me know - your comments are always valued and very helpful! Thanks for reading --Kyrie


	20. Standing Ovation

A/N: Hello again! I've got an essay to write (ugh) so I'll be brief for a change: thanks very much to sunset.rising, lady wen, mika, draegon-fire, phantom-jedi1, phantomphorever, tot (Talin, you're insane), ladyAlyafaelyn, Lair Lover, the Phangirl, Kinetic Asparagus (Look, Gareth! Commas!), I'm stalking you, Luckii.Jinx, Mini Nicka, and HDKingsbury (it did show up! Sweet!) for their reviews. You guys rock. And I hope you like this chapter... something tells me you will. -wink wink-

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Chapter 20: Standing Ovation 

_12th October 1881_

The last rehearsal had ended hours ago, and the first performance of _Roméo et Juliette _was about to begin. There were only twenty minutes till curtain…

Christine sat alone in her dressing room, waiting for the call to places, twisting her fingers together and feeling slightly sick. She was shaking madly, more nervous than she had ever been in her life. Oh, God, what had possessed her to agree to this? There was no way she would be able to sing in front of all those people! There was no way she would be able to perform the way everyone expected her to…

"I'm just going to make a fool of myself!" she muttered, her voice much higher-pitched than normal.

"Of course you won't, Christine. You will bring all of Paris to its feet tonight," Erik's voice said from behind the mirror.

"Erik? Oh, I'm so glad to see you… please, come in…" Christine said, getting to her feet as Erik opened the mirror and stepped into her room.

Christine kept her eyes on the floor and her hands continued to twist together, seemingly of their own accord. Erik grabbed them in his, smiling at her when she looked up at him, a slightly surprised expression on her face.

"Stop that. You have nothing to worry about, Christine. Reyer would not have given you this part if he – and Lefévre – did not think you could do it. And for once I agree with them."

That brought a smile to Christine's face. Erik noticed that she had stopped shaking, that the color had returned to her cheeks, once he'd taken her hands…

Suddenly she threw her arms around him and held him so tightly that Erik staggered backwards a half step.

"Oh, God, Erik, I'm so nervous!" came her squeak of fear, muffled slightly by his shoulder.

Erik smiled, finally gathering his senses back together enough to return her embrace.

"You needn't be, Christine. Tonight you will give men a little of the music of Heaven. You will do brilliantly, I know it."

"Will you be there?" she asked tentatively, her face still buried in his shoulder, as though she were afraid to look up at him.

Her question startled Erik a bit. Why would she be so concerned as to whether or not he attended?

"Of course I will, Christine; I will be watching from my normal seat in Box Five." She still seemed so worried… should he say something else? "Christine, I… remember, I am always there for you."

Christine looked up at last, and she was smiling up at him. She wished she could make herself explain to him why that meant so much to her… but the words died in her throat.

"Erik… Thank you. Thank you so much… for everything…"

He returned her smile and, tentatively, raised his hand to touch her cheek…

Just as there was a loud knock at the door.

Christine whirled around instantly, stepping out of Erik's arms just as he recoiled backwards towards the mirror.

"Yes?" she asked, managing to sound calm in spite of the fact that her heart was racing faster than it had been before. If whoever it was came in…

"Ten minutes until curtain, Mademoiselle Daaé," the stage manager's voice called through the door before his footsteps were heard moving away from Christine's dressing room.

Christine sighed with relief once the man had gone, and turned to face Erik again, looking nervous once more, but excited as well.

"I ought to go… I wouldn't want to miss my cue…"

"No, you wouldn't… Good luck, Christine."

She smiled up at him and turned to go, but Erik, in a moment of either stupidity or complete insanity, caught her hand; she met his eyes questioningly for a moment. He smiled at her and kissed her hand.

"_Vole, mon ange_," he whispered, letting go of her hand.

Letting her arm fall slowly back to her side, Christine kept her gaze fixed on Erik, almost as though she were completely unable to tear her eyes from his. She stared at him for a long moment in wide-eyed wonderment before finally returning his smile and slipping out the door.

* * *

Christine was everything Erik had expected her to be and more. Her voice was more than seraphic, it was… it was perfect. There were tears in his eyes as her final note slowly died away… she had given her soul that night.

The applause began almost the instant the curtain began to close. The whole house went mad, rising to its feet, shouting, cheering, clapping, giving Christine a standing ovation the likes of which Erik had not seen since the Opera first opened. She had shown them a splendor and radiance hitherto unsuspected; her angelic appearance and crystal-clear, lyrical voice had won them the moment she had first opened her mouth to sing that night.

Erik watched Christine's face closely as she appeared for the first of what was to be four curtain calls. She was grinning from ear to ear, and there were tears running down her cheeks. Suddenly, she looked up toward Box Five, and Erik got to his feet, giving her his own silent ovation. If it was possible, her smile widened when she saw him, and Erik decided that it was well worth the risk of standing up to see that. Once her attention had turned elsewhere, he slipped out of the box and into the tunnels, making his way to her dressing room as quickly as he could, determined to be there when she returned.

Christine finally made it back to her dressing room, still beaming, and changed quickly out of her costume and back into her street clothes. She knew that in a moment she would have to greet the subscribers who were shuffling down the hallway towards her dressing room, but there was someone else she wanted to see first.

"Erik?" she called softly, delighted when he stepped through the mirror.

Before Erik could so much as get out a 'you were marvelous,' Christine had thrown her arms around him for the second time that night. Catching on to her absolute euphoria, Erik wrapped his arms around her and picked her up, spinning in tight circles in the middle of her dressing room. Christine laughed, closing her eyes as the room whirled past her dizzyingly. Even after Erik put her down, she held him close.

"Thank you, thank you so much… I owe all of this to you, Erik… thank you for everything you've taught me."

Erik smiled at her, brushing his fingers over her cheek, the way he had meant to before.

"You were amazing, Christine, you were perfect. I have never seen anything more beautiful in my life."

Christine's eyes shone with happiness as she smiled up at him, lost for words.

"I'm keeping you from your public, Christine; they're waiting for you."

"May I see you later?" she asked quickly before he slipped away again or she lost the courage to ask.

"Of course… I will come back for you in an hour."

Erik turned to go, but he remembered something. From some sort of hidden pocket in his cloak, he pulled a single, long-stemmed red rose and handed it to Christine before continuing towards the mirror and vanishing.

Christine stared at the rose for a long moment, stroking the crimson petals gently. She laid it carefully on her dressing table before opening the door to greet her admirers – an enormous amount of people had appeared in that little hallway! – now determined to tell Erik exactly how she felt before that glorious night was over and her resolve left her again.

* * *

Once she had followed Erik to his house on the lake once more, Christine felt as though she could not sit still. She was still so full of energy from the performance…

Her excitement was catching, and Erik seemed to have forgotten his fears for a moment, as he pulled her into his arms suddenly and the two of them twirled wildly around the music room for a few minutes, further scattering the piles of manuscript paper on the floor. He did not care.

Finally, breathless, Christine pulled him to a stop, and Erik realized exactly what he had been doing. Horrified, he took a step back from her.

"I… I'm sorry, Christine, I should not have…"

"Erik…" Christine cut in. She knew he was about to apologize, and she didn't want him to do that… "Please don't Erik… Don't you see? I enjoyed that. There's nothing I enjoy more than spending time here with you."

He could only stare at her, shocked.

"I… I don't know what you mean… I…"

"Can't you see, Erik?" she said softly, taking a step closer to him, and he could only watch her, shocked into silence and immobility. Oh, God, if she only knew what she was doing to him… "Hasn't it been obvious this past week? And if it hasn't… then it is I who should apologize, not you… Erik, I… I love you."

_Words_… _damn those things called words! _

"Christine, I… you… this can't…"

"It _is_ _true_, Erik." she whispered, taking yet another step towards him and putting her hand on his shoulder. "I think I have always loved you; I just haven't been able to admit it to myself, let alone you… I'm sorry."

A small piece of sense poked through Erik's complete astonishment, and he saw from the expression she wore that she was not lying to him. No one else had _ever_ looked at him that way… she was smiling; there was compassion and – dare he say it? - love in her eyes, and he knew she wasn't lying… oh, but how long had he dreamt of hearing her tell him that…?

"Christine…" he whispered, so softly that it was almost inaudible, returning her smile at last.

She was not entirely sure what possessed her to do it, but she did anyway. She stood up on tiptoe and kissed him.

It was an extremely chaste kiss, and it lasted for only a few seconds, but it was enough to send Erik reeling backwards a few steps. Christine turned bright red and looked at the floor.

"I… I'm sorry… I don't know what… I shouldn't have…"

Erik cut through her babbling abruptly; he bent down, cupped her chin in his hand, and pressed his lips to hers. After a moment, Christine leaned in to him, wrapping her arms around his neck, and Erik fervently hoped that he was not dreaming.

* * *

A/N: Told ya. Oh, the fluff! 

Now, to the Ibsen! And the Sophocles! And the Shakespeare! ...huzzah.

Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think - romance is generally not my area of expertise, so tips for writing it better would be much appreciated. Thanks again -- Kyrie


	21. Bitter Truth: Part I

A/N: It's Friday! And a half-day! And the last day of school before Christmas break! HUZZAH!!!

Ahem. Anyway, to the point: thanks to Kinetic Asparagus (look Gareth! _More_ commas!), Mini Nicka, Luckii.Jinx, Gerikslover, Marieena, Licua Sasaki, draegon-fire, ladyAlyafaelyn, lady wen, mikabronxgirl, phantomphorever, HDKingsbury, and Anges Radieux (thanks also for reading the whole story so quickly!) for reviewing! You guys are awesome.

As this chapter title suggests, this and the next two chapters were meant to be one chapter... but it was getting horrendously long, so I chopped it up a bit. And since it's Christmas, I'll post the next two tomorrow and Sunday.

Enjoy!

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Chapter 21: Bitter Truth: Part I

_13th October 1881_

It was nearly nine o'clock, and Christine was still asleep. For the tenth time in as many minutes, Erik wondered if he should go into her room and wake her up. Rehearsal would be starting in just over an hour and a half – if she slept much later, she would quite probably be late, and that would not be good. But after what had happened the night before, he was not entirely sure if he could trust himself to do something so simple as wake her up.

He just could not believe what had happened the night before. A great deal of what had happened could be pinned on post-performance excitement, but still… was it possible that he had been dreaming? He'd made the whole thing up, he'd finally gone mad… Christine was across Paris right now, not asleep here in his house. That night was opening night, and the night before had all been one huge hallucination brought on by lack of sleep… that was it.

The whole episode had simply been too wonderful to be true.

It was at that moment, when he had begun to convince himself that it was all a dream, that there was a soft knock on the door of the music room and the door swung open to show Christine standing in the entryway.

"Good morning, Erik. I'm sorry; I didn't realize how late I'd slept. Too much… too much excitement last night, I suppose…" Christine said, blushing furiously as she trailed off into silence.

Erik didn't reply right away; instead, he crossed the room to stand directly in front of her, returning her soft smile and tucking a stray lock of soft, curly auburn hair behind her ear.

"So it wasn't a dream, then," he whispered. "You… you really did… you really do… you love me?" he asked, as though he needed confirmation, proof that it _had_ been real.

Christine laughed, keeping her bright blue eyes on his dark ones.

"Yes, Erik, I do. Why is that so hard for you to believe?"

After staring at her in silence for a moment, Erik turned his head away so that the masked side of his face was towards her. He couldn't do this to her, he just couldn't. He could _not_ be so selfish as to tie an angel to a demon, a monster… she didn't know what he'd done, what he _was_… So many people had called him a monster, countless jeers and screams and blows had been aimed at him… and every one of those people had been right.

He loved her, that he knew, but he had to let her go… for her own sake… Christine deserved so much better than he could ever give her. But still… he couldn't bring himself to say a word.

"Erik?" Christine asked suddenly, worried. She couldn't see his face, so she wasn't sure, but there was something in the way he stood that suggested that something was wrong…

Erik looked up and smiled at her; his fears could wait for the time being.

"Would you like something to eat before I take you back to rehearsal?"

"I suppose I am a little hungry… if it's not too much trouble…" she responded politely.

"Not at all."

Erik vanished into the kitchen for a few minutes, and while he was gone Christine tried to work out what had been bothering him so much only moments before. Was it something she said? But she'd only affirmed that she did care for him… wasn't that what he had wanted to hear? Or had she just been imagining that pleading look in his eyes so many times before, was she misreading every little thing he'd said to her and done for her since she'd finally seen him face-to-face… perhaps even before then?

When he returned, however, they both put aside whatever misgivings they might have had and enjoyed the bread, fruit, and tea that Erik had brought. Casual chatter – mostly about music – pervaded breakfast, and it was so thoroughly enjoyable that, forty-five minutes later when they both realized that she would be late to rehearsal if she stayed any longer, Christine was sorely tempted to be late.

But common sense won out, and Erik took her back up to her dressing room. He was going to disappear again straight away and stop distracting her, but she wouldn't let go of his hand.

"Thank you, Erik; I've had a very pleasant morning," she said with a smile.

"You're welcome," Erik replied shortly, looking down to meet her eyes.

He couldn't help but return her soft smile then, and he raised his hand to gently trace her jawbone with his fingertips. Christine closed her eyes with a sigh, leaning into the tender caress.

"You… you had better get to the stage, Christine…" Erik whispered, lowering his hand.

He was mildly startled when Christine thanked him again and kissed his cheek before slipping out the door. She would never cease to amaze him…

* * *

No sooner had Christine shut the door than she heard a familiar voice calling her name and saw Meg running up to her, in spite of all the warnings her mother had given her about her pointe shoes.

"Christine! I didn't see you after the performance last night, so I didn't get a chance to tell you – you were amazing! Just… just absolutely wonderful!"

"Thank you, Meg," Christine replied, beaming.

"I never knew you could sing quite like that, Christine, it was beautiful!" Meg continued as the two of them made their way towards the stage. "Erik must be very proud of you… goodness knows, Maman would be thrilled if I could dance as well as you sang last night!"

Christine joined in Meg's laughter, but was thinking that 'proud' wasn't exactly the right word…

* * *

_31st October 1881_

For the past two weeks everything had run smoothly at the Opera, which was certainly unusual enough in and of itself. None of the dancers had misstepped and twisted an ankle; none of the set pieces had fallen apart or torn. The cast was almost unusually high-spirited, as they received a standing ovation every night. The success was even putting Reyer and Lefévre, who were both usually irritable during the stress of performance times, in a good mood. And Christine never stopped smiling.

She had started spending more and more time with Erik, whether it was in her dressing room or his music room; once or twice, she had even convinced him to venture outside to walk her home again. His house on the lake was almost becoming more of her home than her own flat.

Erik noticed that she was beginning to pervade his home, almost like the scent of baking cookies she had told him of often in stories of her childhood. Even when she was at the Opera rehearsing, even when she had not stayed with him for a few days, there were always small signs that she had been there, and that she would be back. Her dressing gown hung over the back of her chair in her room, where she had forgotten it; a book from his library lying open on her desk, waiting for her to return to it; a song propped open on the piano from when she had picked an old composition of his up off the mess on the floor and asked him to play it.

_The ballet girls must be disappointed_, he thought with a smile; _the Opera Ghost hasn't been haunting in quite some time_.

It was true; the more time he had been spending with Christine, the less he had spent as the Phantom. Although there was nothing for him to change at present anyway.

And so he was slightly puzzled when he found Christine waiting for him in her dressing room after the performance, wringing her hands nervously. It was a habit he seemed not to have noticed before, or perhaps she was just nervous more often now that she had the lead.

"Christine? What's wrong? The performance was wonderful…"

"No, no, it's not the performance… It's just, well, there's going to be a bit of a cast party tonight, and… well, Meg and Carlos have said that I really ought to go, and they're right, of course, but I… I just felt guilty… since I always spend the evening with you, and I didn't want to leave you all alone…" Christine trailed off quickly, refraining from adding the 'again' she had initially intended to.

"It's all right, Christine, I don't mind," Erik replied, sounding surprised that she cared so much about his solitary existence.

Christine smiled and stopped twisting her hands together, although she didn't look entirely placated.

"I suppose it's useless to ask you to come with me," she whispered.

"I couldn't, Christine… those rumors have finally died down; you wouldn't want them to start up again, would you?" he said, smiling sadly. For what had to be the millionth time in his life, he wished he was a normal man… any _ordinary_ man would gladly accompany her to a cast party, without any qualms whatsoever.

"Perhaps I… shouldn't have denied those rumors. After all… they were true."

"Christine! Some of them were horrendously far-fetched."

"I know, but some of them weren't… it's not right for me to deny I ever knew you…" she began, but Erik cut her off.

"Lefévre could very well have fired you if he knew that you associated with the Opera Ghost – not that I would let him – and at the very least, Reyer would not have given you this chance. You have a reputation to uphold… consorting with ghosts does not exactly become it."

He should have told her then just what kind of monster she was truly dealing with… it would have been an opportune moment… but he didn't. He couldn't.

"Oh, Erik…" Christine whispered, almost inaudibly.

Erik heard the sympathy in her voice and turned away. He did not want her pity… did not want anyone's. But when he felt her suddenly press gently against his side and take his hand, he knew that there was compassion there too.

"I'll stay here, Erik," she said softly, leaning her head against his shoulder.

"No, Christine, they will be expecting you. Go on, it's all right."

Reluctantly, Christine let go of his hand, bid him good night, and slipped back out of her dressing room. As Erik slipped silently back through the mirror, intending to return to his home, he remembered how little she seemed to care for her own reputation concerning him… Obviously, he could not jeopardize her position, but perhaps it was time that the Phantom made another appearance.

* * *

The cast party was loud, raucous, and crowded, but enjoyable. Christine and Carlos tried – and failed – not to burst out laughing when Emory, who seemed to have had a bit too much to drink, attempted to flirt with a horrified Meg. One of the musicians had thought to bring his violin, so parts of the stage were filled with slightly insane dancing. Laughs were had by all present.

But even so, as one hour turned into two, then three, Christine began to long for the peaceful quiet of Erik's house on the lake, a quiet interrupted only by their two voices talking, or occasionally singing. Just as she was about to make her excuses and sneak off the stage, she heard a squeal from the other side of the stage.

"The Phantom! The Phantom!" one of the ballet girls cried, pointing.

But whatever she had seen was gone.

Shaking her head, Christine wove through the crowd at the back of the stage, hoping that no one would notice that she was going exactly the opposite way from those who wanted to get away from the Ghost…

She finally found him making his way out of the wings behind the balcony set. Quietly, she slipped up behind him and caught his arm, causing him to spin around sharply. When he saw Christine, his face softened instantly.

"So, it _is _possible to startle the Opera Ghost, then," she said, raising an eyebrow and folding her arms across her chest.

"Christine, I…" he began, then saw the smile in her blue eyes.

"Erik, I'm only teasing!" she said, laughing quietly. "What brings you here?"

"Well, the Phantom hasn't made an appearance in quite a while…"

Christine sighed softly, placing her hands gently on Erik's shoulders.

"Why must you insist on playing the ghost? Why do you feel you have to hide from the world?"

Unable to bring himself to tell her, he merely wrapped his arms around her waist and crushed her to him; Christine's heart skipped a beat and she returned his embrace.

"That doesn't answer my question, Erik," she whispered jokingly a few moments later.

"No, but it answers mine."

Erik and Christine sprang apart as an all-too familiar voice called from just around the balcony set.

"For one who claims to not know the Opera Ghost, you're on _excellent_ terms with him, aren't you, Christine?" Buquet said almost gleefully as he stepped into view.

Unlike Erik and Christine had been a moment before, he wasn't bothering to keep his voice down. So far, it had not carried to the party, but it was only a matter of time…

"Erik, hurry, get out of here!" Christine whispered.

"No. I won't leave you to deal with this imbecile alone, Christine," he replied softly, putting his hand on her shoulder.

"Very chivalrous of you, _Monsieur le Fântome_!" Buquet scoffed, coming a few steps nearer.

"It's you he wants, not me. For God's sake, Erik, go! I'll be all right – please, just go!" she hissed back at him, leaving him little choice but to vanish.

Buquet cursed very loudly and very crudely. Slowly, Christine took a few steps backwards, then whirled around and tried to run for the door.

"Not so fast, missy!" Buquet snarled, catching up to her in a few quick bounds.

Swiftly, he grabbed her wrist and twisted her arm sharply behind her back, effectively trapping her. Christine let out a small squeak of pain before she started trembling uncontrollably… just having Buquet that close to her, nearly pressed against her back, made her feel incredibly ill…

"Shall we make a trade, _ghost_? You or her, it's your choice."

"Don't… don't listen to him Erik…" Christine said shakily.

"Oh, no?" Buquet whispered into her ear, his hot breath on her face making her cringe. She could feel his free hand run up her back, his grubby fingers tangle in her hair… Every breath shuddered, and she closed her eyes, praying that he would let her go…

A barely audible growl sounded from somewhere nearby, and Buquet laughed.

"Don't like that, eh, _Erik_? And yet it still won't make you show your face… too cowardly to turn yourself in, hmmm? Should I kill her? It wouldn't be hard…"

Christine's shuddery breaths caught in one quick gasp as she felt Buquet's fingers wrap around her throat. _Oh God no_…

"Christine?"

Someone called her name from nearby; someone else echoed it, sounding very alarmed… in an instant, Buquet relinquished her and Christine crumpled to the floor, her head spinning wildly as she tried to breathe normally again, her eyes tightly shut. She was beginning to register through her dizziness that she knew the two voices and that they were right beside her now. It was Meg and Carlos.

"Thank God we were just leaving!" Meg cried when Christine finally lifted her head. "Christine, are you all right? What happened?"

But Christine shook her head, although whether to acknowledge that she was _not_ all right or if she was simply refusing to answer the second question was unclear. Carlos looked around in the dark wings, wondering if the foul creature who'd done this was still there.

Suddenly he saw something move, caught a flash of white in the darkness… and then a man's shape was discernible in the gloom, his black cloak swirling around his legs for a moment… and his white half-mask glaringly obvious.

And, just as suddenly, the Phantom of the Opera was gone.


	22. Bitter Truth: Part II

A/N: As promised, the next segment of this three-part chapter... thing. Thanks to phantom-jedi1, The Phangirl, Evangeline Daae, ladyAlyafaelyn, Kinetic Asparagus, Mini Nicka, draegon-fire, Anges Radieux, phantomphorever, HDKingsbury, and sunset.rising for reviewing. And so, without further ado, chapter 22!

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Chapter 22: Bitter Truth: Part II 

_31st October 1881_

"Christine, are you sure you're all right? You're awfully pale…"

For what had to be the tenth time, Christine nodded, unable to look up at Meg as she did so. She was sitting in her chair in her dressing room, her fingers twining together, her head bowed. Meg and Carlos stood over her, varying degrees of worry and confusion on their faces.

"What happened? Who… who was that?" Carlos asked, although he thought he already knew the answer. It seemed that Meg had been right to worry about Christine's involvement with the Ghost…

Christine didn't know what to say, didn't know how she was supposed to explain what had happened to them without involving Erik any further.

"Christine?" Meg prodded, sounding worried and, almost, slightly impatient. "Who attacked you?"

"Meg… Carlos… you… you really needn't worry about it… I'm fine, really I am…"

"Christine! For God's sake, you're _not fine_! You can't go on insisting that there's nothing wrong!" Meg cried exasperatedly.

"I… I think I saw who it was, Meg," Carlos added quietly.

Both Christine and Meg turned sharply to look up at Carlos, waiting for him to continue.

"In the shadows a few yards in front of us, I saw… well, it couldn't have been anyone but the Phantom."

Meg turned, horrified, to stare at Christine, the memory of the night her friend had been sick suddenly sharp in her mind, but Christine only looked back in equal horror.

"Never. It… it wasn't him, Carlos, he didn't hurt me. Erik would _never_ hurt me…" Christine protested quickly.

"Erik?" Carlos asked, sounding even more alarmed.

"That's his name, Carlos, he does have a name!" Christine replied stiffly.

"Well, if it wasn't the Phantom, then who was it?"

"Meg, you don't have to get involved in this… it would probably be better for you both if you didn't. You really don't have to worry about me – I'm fine," she said, finally able to sound reassuring, smiling up at her friends.

At this point, however, Meg and Carlos weren't fooled.

"Meg's right, Christine, you can't keep insisting there's nothing wrong. We both saw it! And I'm positive I saw the Ghost nearby…"

"It wasn't him…!"

"Then who was it?"

"Meg…"

"Don't tell me not to worry! You're my best friend, Christine, and lately you've been doing just about everything in your power to make me worry! You used to be so quiet and shy that the only thing I worried about was you getting trampled by everyone else here… but now you're consorting with the Phantom, of all…"

"He's not a ghost, Meg, I've told you! He's a man! A _kind_ man, a gentle, caring, intelligent man! That wasn't him in the wings tonight – I was trying to protect him, don't you see? For some reason, Buquet is on a private ghost hunt… and has decided that I would make excellent bait. It was Buquet that nearly killed me tonight, not Erik!"

Meg and Carlos just stared at Christine for a long while after her outburst, and they saw for a moment the shy, subdued girl they'd known for years come out of hiding as Christine meshed and unmeshed her fingers, staring resolutely at the floor. And yet they saw that perhaps there was much more to their best friend than the vulnerable creature they had thought her to be.

"Why didn't you just tell us that, Christine?" Carlos said quietly, breaking the silence at last. "Don't you trust us?"

"Things have been so insane lately… I'm not sure who to trust with everything anymore. I think only Erik knows the full truth… and I can't betray him any further, you must understand that. If anyone else knew that the rumors about me were true… there might be others who would think Buquet was right. I'll… I'll tell you someday, I promise," Christine said quietly, sounding exhausted.

Meg nodded and, by way of changing the subject, glanced over at the little gold box-clock on Christine's dressing table.

"It's… really late, Christine, Maman will be wondering what's happened to me… Would you like to come home with me tonight?"

"No… no thank you, Meg, I'd… I'd like to be alone at the moment, if that's all right."

Meg nodded again, as she had assumed that Christine would say that and expecting that the moment she and Carlos left, Erik would appear.

"Well… good night," she said with a rather forced smile, and surreptitiously dragged Carlos out of the room, shutting the door with a soft click behind them.

The two lingered at the door for a moment longer, feeling slightly guilty, especially when they heard a soft sob from inside.

"She's crying… should we go back in there?"

"No… wait…" Meg whispered back.

Then the voice came, and Meg was satisfied that Christine would be all right if they left. It was an angel's voice, beautiful and melodious, a voice she would have recognized anywhere, even when she'd only ever heard him say three words.

It was Erik's voice.

On the inside of the room, Erik knelt down in front of Christine so that he was at her eye level.

"Christine…" he breathed quietly. "Christine… I'm so… so sorry… I never should have involved you with the Ghost… this is all my fault…"

"D-don't say that, Erik," Christine sniffed. "I'm all right… he didn't hurt me. I'm… I'm just glad he didn't find you…"

"Next time he will, Christine, I assure you. I won't stand by again while he threatens to kill you…"

"Erik, that's exactly what he wants. Just leave him alone."

Erik said nothing, but Christine could see from the cold, hard look in his eyes as he stared just past her that she had not convinced him.

"Erik, please…"

"He could have killed you, Christine – he meant to. Buquet will not get away with this a second time," he cut in sharply.

Knowing it was useless to argue now, Christine looked away and started rubbing at her fingers again. Erik quickly reached out and enveloped her small, delicate hands in one of his, a smile finally breaking through his self-directed fury. They sat like that in silence for a few minutes before he realized that there were tears rolling down her cheeks.

"It's all right, Christine… I won't let this happen again, I promise you," he said softly.

Christine said nothing; that was not what worried her. What worried her was Buquet… the man seemed so determined to capture – even kill? – Erik, for what seemed only to be personal ambition! If he persisted… if he _succeeded_… God, what then? What was she supposed to do now?

But Erik distracted her from her thoughts by tenderly brushing her tears aside, pressing his palm gently against her cheek. At last, Christine looked up to meet his eyes and returned his smile. She pulled one hand free of his and ran her fingers through his straight, black hair, letting her arm slip around his neck. They were only inches apart…

Erik suddenly closed the gap between them, pressing her body tightly against his as he kissed her. Christine closed her eyes and sighed, all her troubles forgotten.

For the moment.

* * *

_3rd November 1881 _

They were nearly finished with the intermission between Acts III and IV of _Roméo et Juliette_. Three days had passed since the hellish cast party, and still Erik was searching for that accursed stagehand. He wasn't planning on harming him – at least, not unless absolutely necessary – but the man needed to be taught that the Phantom was not to be taken lightly.

He heard the subscribers shuffling back to their stalls and boxes on the other side of the curtain, and decided that it was time once again to make himself scarce. Nimble as a cat, he climbed into the flies, reasoning that there were few set changes during this act – perhaps Buquet, as the head flyman, would be the only one about.

As the performers began to take their places, however, it seemed that he was mistaken – there was no one at all on the narrow catwalks that swayed slightly with each step. The jungle of ropes, sandbags, and backdrops, navigable only by precarious, winding passageways on rickety wooden bridges, was deserted.

Act IV began, therefore, without incident. After a few minutes of fruitlessly scanning the flies and wings for Buquet, Erik turned his attention to the stage, where Christine and Emory were singing another duet. The boy was having pitch trouble that evening – vocally speaking, he was leaning quite heavily on Christine to lead the way. In spite of that, she still shone, just as he had expected her to.

Suddenly, something hard and pointed pressed against his shoulder.

"Too busy watching her to pay attention, _Erik_?" Buquet hissed.

Erik easily whirled away from the sharp little pocketknife that Buquet carried. The leer on the man's face faded slightly, but he seemed determined still.

"You will leave Christine Daaé in peace," Erik stated simply.

Buquet had the nerve to laugh.

"And why should I do that? She's pretty, she's young… and she traps you."

Erik raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"I hardly feel trapped, _monsieur_. I would be much obliged, however, if you informed me of exactly why you harbor so strong a death wish."

"For you – not me," Buquet spat back.

"We'll see. Now, my question?"

"Yer a damned menace to this theater. Don't fool yourself – I'd be rich as hell if I could bring in the infamous Opera Ghost."

"I see," Erik said thoughtfully, as though he were actually considering the merit of such a plan. "Well, I see one flaw in your plan, monsieur."

"Oh?" Buquet said snidely. This was ridiculous, he thought, better just run the bastard through while he was talking… get 'im off guard…

"You do have to actually catch me," Erik pointed out, and, with a flourish of black cape, he was gone.

Buquet cursed, daring not shout out at the ghost for fear that his voice would carry to the audience.

"Idiot," the Phantom's voice said from behind him, and Buquet whirled around, knife still at the ready.

But Erik was standing a good four feet away, a catlike grin on his face.

"Now, perhaps you would enjoy talking sense. Cease tormenting Miss Daaé, and abandon this pointless vendetta against me, and you will never hear from me again. You have my word."

"Yer word ain't what I'm after,_ ghost_. I'll tell you what – you can go to hell, and I'll take my fat lot of reward money from Lefévre and the girl… she's amusing enough."

He'd gone too far. With one fluid movement, he had crossed the few feet between them and held Buquet two inches off the ground by his grimy shirt collar.

"Christine will be left in peace. Remove yourself from my sight before I forget myself and kill you," he snarled.

He forced himself to release Buquet, albeit rather roughly, and sharply turned to walk away.

Buquet was not finished, however. Quietly, he sprang up behind Erik and tried to stab him in the back with his little knife… But Erik had heard the catwalk behind him creak, and was able to move just in time. The only damage that Buquet's blade did was a small rent in the cloak.

Erik cursed under his breath – in his determination not to hurt the man, he had come unarmed. He sorely wished he had the Punjab lasso with him now…

Buquet swung out again, almost as though he were flailing at Erik, and he easily dodged, but his foot nearly slipped off the back of the catwalk. So that had been the flyman's intention, then… Carefully, he sprang backwards onto the next suspended walkway, putting an eight-inch gap of empty space between the two of them. He stood very close to the edge of the catwalk; maybe, if he timed it right…

Buquet lunged again, sure this time that he would hit something, putting extra force behind the stab this time. But a split second before the flyman could skewer him, Erik jumped backwards; Buquet overbalanced and tumbled off the catwalk. He only just managed to escape falling by grasping hold of the corner rope.

"What say I leave you to hang there and think about it?" Erik said coldly, turning away for the second time.

As the Phantom's cloak fanned out behind him, Buquet caught the thick black fabric with both hands. If he was going to fall, then the Opera Ghost would come with him…

Erik choked, then, leaning forward heavily to counter Buquet's weight pulling him down, scrabbled at the fastening on his cloak…

In the wings, Meg Giry, soon accompanied by the entire _corps de ballet_, screamed shrilly as Buquet fell from the flies thirty feet above the stage to land on the dark wooden boards with a sickening crunch… heard his scream, heard the whole theater erupt into panicked noise...

Christine turned white when, as the curtain was hurriedly drawn shut, she realized that she recognized the cloak that Buquet still had clutched in his hand. She looked up and, sure enough, there was Erik, apparently too shocked to move. He saw her and, with a quick jerk of his head, indicated the stage right wings. Carefully, Christine wound her way through the chaos backstage to, somehow, find Erik in the fray.

"Come on, Christine, let's get out of here… your dressing room, across the lake, anywhere but here…"

"No, not down there… all the rumors say that your home is somewhere down there… To the roof, we'll be safe there."

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A/N: If anyone else out there has memorized ALW's play (stage version) word for word (or pretty near to it, anyway) like I have, you'll recongize that last line... and all I can do is laugh manically. 

Oh, and I just remembered: the flies at the Paris Opera are about 50 feet above the stage... but for the purposes of this story, I've bent reality a tad. Bear with me and pretend they're a good deal lower. Thanks! --Kyrie


	23. Bitter Truth: Part III

A/N: Merry Christmas Eve (or Happy Hannuka/Kwanzaa/Ramadan/etc)! And as promised, here's the final bit of my three-part chapter. Thanks to draegon-fire, ladyAlyafaelyn, The Phangirl, HDKingsbury, Anges Radieux (special thanks to HD and Anges for actually getting what my little note last chapter was on about...), Mini Nicka, LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath, mildetryth, Kinetic Asparagus, and phantom-jedi1 for reviewing. You guys rock!

I severely hope I'm not attemtping to jump the shark here... perhaps I should have worded the end of the last chapter a little differently, but, well, I expect a lot of you will be surprised to find that this isn't anywhere near over yet! If, however, you do feel that I'm going too far, I'll try and rework this and turn my plethera of ideas into a sequel... somehow. I'd really rather not, as the only way I can see to do that is how I'm going about it now...

And I'm blithering. Anyway, enjoy!

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Chapter 23: Bitter Truth: Part III 

_3rd November 1881_

Christine stepped out onto the roof of the Paris Opera first, a cold wind hitting her full in the face the moment she did so. She turned her head to look back at Erik, hoping perhaps he would offer his cloak again… but one look at his stony face reminded her that his cloak was still on the stage, many floors below them.

"Erik… what happened? Please tell me you didn't… I know you wouldn't… what happened? Buquet…"

"He'll live," Erik said gruffly. He had fallen feet-first, after all.

"But… you're all right, aren't you? Please… tell me what happened."

Erik sighed, relieved that even after what had just happened she still trusted him, but that didn't make him want to say what he had to now.

"No, Christine, I didn't try to make him fall. Admittedly, I… I _was_ looking for him. He'd gone far enough, and I wanted him to leave you in peace…"

Quickly, he described the encounter to her, his voice turning more and more into a growl the farther along he got in his tale. When he had finished, Christine's eyes were wide; she looked somewhere between worried and absolutely horrified.

"Are… are you all right?"

"Fine…" Erik replied stiffly. "I'm fine, Christine…"  
"But you said he'd tried to cut you from behind…" she persisted, trying to move around behind him to make sure that Buquet truly hadn't hurt him.

"He did…" Erik's voice was more like a snarl now, low, menacing, and furious. "He did not even see fit to give me what he would have given any other man… He would have given anyone else the chance to face him." With a smirk, he continued sardonically, finally allowing his voice to rise to a shout. "But no, I am to be hunted like an animal… like the monster I am!"

In the following silence, the word _monster_ seemed to ricochet over the roof, slicing harder at them both with each ghostly echo. Even the solid grey sky, the dull grey, rain washed buildings far beneath their feet, seemed to shout it back at them, proclaiming to all of Paris that there was one who did not belong in the world of men…

"Erik… you are not a monster," Christine said softly, walking up to him, intending to put her hand on his arm comfortingly… but he moved away from her.

"No, Christine, I am, you can believe me in this. I… I have lied to you, I tricked you… and there are so many things I've never told you, Christine, so many things I hoped never to tell you… but it seems I must. I… I cannot continue dragging you down into my hellish existence… a hell I have created for myself. You deserve far better, _mon ange_."

"Erik…" Christine began, but he interrupted her.

"I'm… well, I'm twenty years older than you…"

"Erik, I don't care…" Christine started again, but got no further. She was truly worried now – why did he have to keep insisting that he was a monster when he was not?

"…and I have seen… so much… _done_ so much that I… regret now… Have I told you that I lived for several years in Persia?" he asked quietly, sounding almost hoarse.

"No." she replied quietly. If he was finally going to trust her with his past, well… then she would listen to everything, even though it made no difference to her.

"Well… I did. I… I built for the Shah of Persia a maze of mirrors… and I was a… a_ mercenary_, Christine… I… I know you believe me to be utterly incapable of causing anyone harm, but… that's not true. Years ago… I've done such horrible things, Christine, and… and only much later did I finally understand that I had been wrong… that I had distanced myself so much from humanity and its cruelties that I had ceased to _be_ human… had become a worse monster than I had ever encountered myself. That… that is when I returned to France… I helped to build the Opera House, and have not been a part of the human race ever since. I shut myself away. So… everything you have ever heard about me is true, Christine… I am a monster, I am a beast… I am a phantom. I'm not an angel… I'm not even a man… a demon does not deserve the love of an angel… Christine, I'm… I'm sorry."

There was a moment's pause when he finally finished, a long moment when only the wind rustling around them across the expanse of slate rooftop could be heard. Erik could not look at Christine; instead, he stared out across the grey Parisian landscape without really seeing it. His face was blank, devoid of all emotion, as he did something he had struggled desperately against for years – he remembered. The wind was fierce in his mind, and it carried countless screams to his ears… his own pained, terrified cries, and those of others… the screams of fear aimed his way whenever he walked among men… His fingers curled into fists, yet he bowed his head. He had wanted so long for Christine to accept him, and yet even now he was lying to her, even now he hadn't told her the full truth. He did not deserve her acceptance, and deserved the love she'd so freely given him even less. When he thought about it, monster was truly a very adequate word to describe him…

Christine watched Erik closely through the long silence that followed his confession. She could almost feel the pain that was tormenting him, and it nearly tore her in two. All she wanted to do was wrap her arms around him and promise him that everything would be all right… but after what had just happened onstage, she couldn't be sure of that. And perhaps she shouldn't do that… he was a murderer… but no, even if he had done those things in the past, he was different now. Erik had said so himself – he had realized that he was wrong… and the Erik she knew did not disappear. Quietly, she walked around him to stand in front of him, to look him in the face… she had to know if she was just holding on to an illusion… again… but this time was different somehow.

When Erik saw her, he tried to turn his face away as far as he could. He did not want her to see that his stony face had vanished, that there were now remorseful tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. But she saw, and she knew that he was no illusion. He was telling her the truth, and she knew it, but that did not change who he was _now_. He was not an assassin – that was not a soulless, heartless killer standing in front of her, silently begging her forgiveness and not expecting to receive it.

"Erik…" she whispered, realizing that her voice was choked with tears, her vision suddenly blurry. "You're not the man you were then… you've changed. You said yourself that you regret what you have done, and I believe you. Men can change, Erik. But… but nothing you have said alters the fact that I love you. The past… the past is over; it is not for me or anyone else to judge you."

_She doesn't know everything… she still doesn't know everything…you have to tell her _now_, you have to free her _now_, while you still can…_

"Christine… how can I… how can I ask this of you…? That's… that's still not everything… The reason that so many have shunned me, tormented me, tried to kill me… the reason I distanced myself from humanity, why I… why I became the demon that I was… that I am… Haven't… haven't you ever wondered about… my mask?"

This was it. He finally was going to tell her – he had to. He just prayed that she would not scream or run… but what right does a monster have to have his prayers answered?

"I… I have, when I first met you, but I wanted you to trust me and tell me of your own accord."

Erik nodded, knowing he should thank her for her kind consideration, something that no one else had allowed him, but his throat had closed, he could not speak. Instead, he reached up with one hand and, haltingly, pulled his mask away and let his hand drop to his side.

Christine's eyes widened, but out of surprise, not fear. Even though, at the back of her mind, she had expected him to be hiding some sort of disfigurement, she hadn't expected what she saw. Some of the flesh on the right side of his face was red and ridged, twisted across his cheek. But on top of that, there were straighter, white lines, long and slender, that looked suspiciously like scars… Tentatively, she reached up and gently touched the malformed side of his face.

Erik immediately flinched away, a reflex born of a lifetime of torment and pain inflicted because of his face. Christine pulled her hand away quickly.

"I'm sorry… did I hurt you?" she asked, sounding anxious.

"No…" he breathed.

The concern he heard in her voice made him look at her at last. She was not screaming, she was not running, she was not even gaping at him in horror. No, she was… she was standing quite calmly in front of him, looking only mildly curious.

"Were you injured?" she asked softly.

"No… no, I was… born this way."

"But… the scars…"

"This excuse for a face has brought me far worse than a few cuts, Christine," he said stiffly.

Christine only looked up at him, her eyes unreadable. Everything fell into place – why he felt he had to hide from the world, why he had done those horrible things in his past, why he now played the Opera Ghost. He had never known kindness in his life, had he? For his whole life, he had been shunned, taunted, hated – hurt even – because of his face… no wonder he was always so surprised at her acceptance of him… he expected her to fear him as well.

She reached out to touch his face again, running her fingers softly over the bumps and scars, and this time he did not jerk back; finally, she laid her palm against his cheek and met his eyes, a soft smile on her face.

"Nothing you've told me or shown me changes anything, Erik," she said.

Erik could not believe his ears. He was dreaming, surely he was dreaming… But the wind picked up again and the chill reminded him that he was wide awake… She still loved him, even now that she knew who he truly was… no one else had ever done that…

With one swift motion, he gathered her in his arms and pulled her close as both of them finally allowed their tears to fall. As he pressed Christine nearer to him, his mask slipped out of his fingers, landing with a soft thump on the roof. No one moved to pick it up for what seemed quite a long time.

* * *

Christine finally backed away from Erik, remembering suddenly that the chaos downstairs must have finished and they would be looking for her.

"Erik, I must go… they'll wonder where I am."

He nodded, again unable to speak. She turned to go, but noticed his mask lying on the ground and bent to pick it up. Before he could take it back and put it on, however, she reached up and kissed his deformed cheek; only then did she return the mask. Smiling, she slipped back off to the performance, leaving Erik on the roof, holding his mask in his hand, slightly shocked.

A few minutes later, he followed her down, sure that the performance would have started again and the hallways would be deserted. Before he could slip into the tunnels, however, he met Adele.

Her original intention had been to find out why he had caused Buquet to fall, but it took only one look at Erik for her to know that he hadn't done it. He looked slightly confused, lost even, something that she was not at all used to seeing on his face.

"Erik? What happened? Where did you have Christine – you swore to me that you would not keep her from a performance again…"

Erik cut smoothly through her reprimands, his voice unusually quiet, almost hoarse.

"I told her, Adele. Everything. My past, my… my face… I told her _everything_, and she still accepts me. You were right."

And with that, Erik turned and vanished down the hallway. Adele was unable to stare after him for long, as she had to return to the performance, but for perhaps the first time there was not a single doubt or worry about Christine in her mind.

* * *

_4th November 1881, late_

Buquet groaned, trying not to move. His leg hurt like hell. Dammit, _all _of him hurt like hell! Well, what did he expect, after falling that far, they all said? It wasn't his damned fault he'd fallen!

Before he'd passed out, he had managed to throw a few accusations towards that bastard Erik, but Lefévre merely went pale and denied his 'ravings.' He was telling the goddamned truth! He didn't care; they could all go to hell.

He gave a strangled cry as he accidentally moved his right leg – the leg he'd fallen directly onto. He was lucky, apparently – the bone had pierced through his skin, yet they had been able to set it anyway. But he would still probably have a limp… and he was completely out of action for a month, perhaps more. Damn, but he didn't even know who 'they' were that kept telling him all this bullshit! He was in some hospital somewhere, that much was clear… He yelled again as another spasm sent lightning needles of agony up and down his leg - his whole damned body! - again.

This was all Erik's fault, the bastard. That damned ghost had been a nuisance too long, and it resulted in his near-death! Well, Buquet refused to stand for that. The sonofabitch wasn't satisfied with personal gain as a reason to catch him, hmmm? Well, the Phantom had just given him a damned good reason to want him dead now!

* * *

A/N: --Kyrie whistles and examines the ceiling--

There's a reason for this! Really! Think of this as the end of Act I. Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think!

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night. --Kyrie


	24. Repercussions

A/N: Hello again! Time for another post, I think. Although my updates will be slowing down now, as winter break, sad though it is, does not last indefinitely, and I must return to the land of essays and algebra. Ugh. For the present, though - thanks to ladyAlyafaelyn, LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath, Luckii.Jinx, Mini Nicka, I'm stalking you, mikabronxgirl, Anges Radieux, draegon-fire, phantom-jedi1, Kinetic Asparagus, Lucia Sasaki, mildetryth, and The Phangirl.

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Chapter 24: Repercussions

_6th November 1881_

To say that the performances on Friday and Saturday were complete disasters would probably be a gross understatement. The cast as a whole and the ballet girls in particular were skittish, flustered, almost as though they were afraid to step out onto the stage. One ballet rat was even ridiculous enough to let out an audible squeal onstage when she thought she saw something flicker in the flies above her head. Both Reyer and Lefévre had completely lost their sense of good humor. Erik was positive that it was only his protégé's astounding sense of professionalism that kept the number of refunds low.

But now it was Sunday morning, and there were no performances to worry about. No performances, no rehearsal… nothing. Christine was half awake, really, but perhaps if she lay in bed long enough with her eyes shut, she would drift off again…

No such luck. An unusually dissonant chord assaulted her through the closed door of her room in Erik's house, and she opened her eyes. Over the past few weeks, she had gotten so used to waking to Erik's music that when she was back at her own flat, the sun streaming through the window, once a fairly trustworthy alarm, was almost completely unfamiliar.

But this strange dissonance was extremely unusual, unheard of, even. She couldn't think of a time when she had heard Erik strike a wrong note…

She sat up and stretched, contemplating simply throwing on her dressing gown before going to find out what was wrong – she was even more worried now that the music had ceased all together after another few less-than-melodious chords.

Common sense – and propriety – won out in the end, however, and she took the extra several minutes to dress and twist her mane of auburn curls up into a bun, as brushing it would have taken even more time. Before she reached the door of the music room, there was another phrase of music – he seemed to have started from just before where the problem was – and the end was considerably less discordant that time, but still…

Erik cursed under his breath. He had not had this much difficulty composing a song in years… But this one was the first he had ever written for Christine that he intended for her to see…

Just not yet. When he heard her soft knock at the door, he hurriedly tucked the papers into his violin case, hoping she would not notice them.

"Good morning, Christine. Did you sleep well?" he asked casually, getting to his feet, careful to stand in front of the open violin case.

"I did, thank you… but Erik, have you been up all night?"

The moment she had walked into the room, she had been immensely surprised to see that his black coat and white waistcoat had been abandoned, and the sleeves of his white lawn shirt were rolled up. She saw the reason, of course – the inkpot and pen on the top of the piano were quite clear, as were the dried ink-stains on his hands, but she still went slightly pink.

After a moment, Erik spread his hands and shrugged elegantly. He slept very little – for some reason, he simply didn't need to, and he explained this to Christine.

"Oh," she responded simply, then cleared her throat rather uncharacteristically and took a few steps towards Erik. "I… I don't think I've ever heard you strike a wrong note before, Erik. What were you playing?"

He resolutely ignored the violin case.

"Nothing," he answered nonchalantly.

Christine raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"I'm not deaf, Erik," she said with a smirk.

"It's a surprise for you, my dear," he said with a sigh, relenting a little. "You can't see it until it's finished. Or hear it, for that matter. I thought you would sleep longer this morning…"

"I don't see how you could possibly get it written without my knowing – I'm here nearly all the time now."

Simultaneously, both their eyes flicked to the floor and then back again, and Christine's breath caught, her blush returned, as Erik's intense gaze seemed to bore into her. She stared up at him, almost completely mesmerized, shivering with something that had nothing to do with coldness. Finally, she tore her eyes away.

"There's an ink splotch on your shirt," she muttered softly, desperate for something to say.

Erik didn't respond; he could care less about ink splotches. Instead, he reached out with a faintly trembling hand and brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheek, then inverting his hand, letting it fall gently down to her shoulder, his fingertips just barely touching her throat as he lowered his hand. He felt her shudder with his caress, and knew somehow that it was not out of revulsion. Almost of its own accord, his other arm wrapped around her waist just as Christine leaned forward and pressed herself against his chest.

After a moment, Christine reached up a hand to touch his face, but her fingers found only the cold, hard surface of his mask. She frowned and pulled away slightly, moving to lift the mask away…

Fast as lightning, Erik's hand encircled her wrist, holding her still, his grip almost painfully tight.

"What are you doing?" he croaked, his eyes holding a wild expression somewhere between fury and pure terror.

Christine merely smiled softly, keeping her hand very still.

"I want to see _you_, Erik. This," she tapped the mask gently with a fingertip, "is not you. Your face holds no horror for me."

Slowly, reluctantly, Erik's grip loosened, and he allowed Christine to pull his mask away. He tried to turn his head, but she took his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her.

"You've told me everything, Erik. I trust you. But… you have yet to trust me." she said sadly.

"I… I'm sorry, Christine, I… I didn't know what else to expect," he whispered.

But he knew better now. Christine was an angel – his angel – and she was not afraid of him. She let her hands fall to her sides, still smiling up at him.

"Christine…" Erik began, but he couldn't finish.

"Yes?" she prodded gently.

"…Thank you."

* * *

_7th November 1881_

"You know, I'm surprised at you, Meg," Carlos said randomly as they were stretching. "You've badgered Christine incessantly for months about the Phantom, and now that he's nearly killed someone, you don't say a word. Rather odd, that."

"I know it's a bit strange, Carlos, but…" Meg began with a sigh, but Carlos interrupted.

"He tried to _kill_ someone, Meg!" he snapped, obviously having trouble keeping his voice down so that only Meg would hear. "Never mind that it was Buquet – it still would have been murder, and only dumb luck on Buquet's part has prevented that! And what has he got planned for _Christine_?"

"Nothing, Carlos," Meg replied resignedly.

"Nothing? _Dios mio_, how can you be so sure? We haven't a clue what this Phantom fellow is really capable of…"

"That's exactly it, Carlos, _we_ don't know what he's capable of," she shot back, lowering her voice so dramatically that Carlos had to lean in to hear her. "Christine does. Christine knows him, she trusts him… and I've heard enough from her to know that he wouldn't have done something like that."

"_What_?"

"We have to trust her, Carlos, at least in this."

"What makes you so sure all of a sudden? Why have you suddenly changed your mind about him?"

"Christine said something to me the last time I asked… She said that there was no Opera Ghost, that he was just a drama we'd created for ourselves… and I think she's right. Perhaps I wouldn't go so far as to say I trust _him_, but I believed Christine when she told me that he was just a man."

Carlos stared at Meg for a long moment before nodding. He opened his mouth to speak when, suddenly, there was a sharp thunking, cracking noise from the front of the stage – Madame Giry had smacked the walking stick she used to keep time for the dancers very hard onto the wooden floorboards.

"Meg Giry! Monsieur Sanchez! I would thank you not to carry on private conversations during my rehearsal! Now Meg, since you have spent this whole time chatting away and obviously know your steps perfectly, would you be so kind as to demonstrate for us?"

Meg winced as she got to her feet – she knew her mother would start her exactly where she was the shakiest. Carlos offered her a wavering grin that, while slightly reassuring, stated clearly that he was glad it wasn't him. Meg frowned and stuck her tongue out at him before moving to the front of the stage and readying herself for the long string of admonishments she was positive were coming her way.

* * *

A/N: Sorry; a bit of filler, I'm afraid. The plot will return with the next chapter! Please let me know what you think, and thanks for reading! --Kyrie 


	25. Beyond Imagination

A/N: Hello, all! Happy New Year! I must apologize - I planned to update more over the break, but then the bloody messaging stopped working _yet again_ (I swear, this site has some sort of vendetta against my vacations...) and what was the point of posting a chapter you wouldn't see? Thanks very much to those people who did find it - I have over 10,000 hits now! Yay! Less reviews than normal... perhaps you'll like this chapter better. Thanks to Luckii.Jinx, The Phangirl, Kinetic Asparagus, Jedi X-man Serena Koboi, HDKingsbury, phantom-jedi1, whiteroom, draegon-fire and mildetryth.

And we have a dream sequence!!! I am actually rather proud of this one... I hope you like it!

* * *

Chapter 25: Beyond Imagination

_23rd November 1881_

_Everything was dark around her. But no… no, wait, there was one light, one small, flickering point of brightness somewhere far in the distance… Instinctively, she moved towards it, and as the light grew nearer, the pressing, suffocating silence diminished. Someone far away – where the light was, perhaps? – was playing a violin, the soft strains so gentle and beautiful that she wanted to reach them faster, but her feet wouldn't carry her any closer._

_There was a voice layered over the music now, a voice she hadn't heard in many, many years… and she stopped moving, as though standing still would allow her to hear her father's voice more clearly._

_"Christine… Christine, I am so proud of you, my wonderful daughter."_

_"Papa! Is that really you?"_

_"Of course, my dear… I'm right here, can't you see me?"_

_"N-no, papa, it's… it's so dark…"_

_She stumbled forward, closer to the light, trying to find her father in the swirling, inky blackness, but to no avail. The violin seemed to be growing fainter – the silence and the darkness were pressing in on her again, smothering her…_

_"Papa! Where are you? I can't find you… please, papa, where are you?"_

_He didn't answer her; instead, she heard his voice again, but it was different, it sounded older, more worn. She recognized his tone from somewhere, knew what it meant… her eyes widened and she tried to stop him…_

_"When I am in Heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you…"_

_"Papa, he's here, I've met him, I know him, you don't need to…"_

_"I have to leave to send him to you, Christine."_

_"No! Papa, it's all right, he's here, he's here… don't leave me, papa, please don't leave me…"_

_"Christine…" _

_The violin died away suddenly, the light erupted all around her, blinding her after the long period of complete blackness…_

_"Papa! Please, papa, no, please! PAPA!"_

_Her scream caught in her throat, and luckily, as she was now somewhere very familiar. The Opera House stage… she was performing at the start of Act IV…everything was all right, everything was perfectly normal. How she had dozed off in the middle of a performance, she had no idea…_

_She opened her mouth to sing once she heard her music cue, but the notes never left her mouth. Someone else screamed, several someones… she turned around quickly, and rather unprofessionally, to see what on earth was causing all the commotion… _

_…and she saw a man dangling from the flies, grasping a rope with one hand, desperately trying to get a better grip…her eyes widened in horror as another man, standing triumphantly over the one who was falling, a vicious leer on his face, stomped hard on the one hand that kept him from plummeting…_

_God, what could she do? What could she DO? Nothing… there was nothing to do but watch with her heart in her mouth as he fell from the catwalk to the stage, crumpling on the worn black floorboards… crumpling, breaking, shattering…_

_He'd lied to her…_

_Gone… everything… EVERYTHING was destroyed… shattered...  
_

_And in that one moment when she lost everything, her limbs remembered how to move, and she dropped to her knees at the broken man's side, shouting desperately, somewhere between screaming and sobbing… _

_But the more she called him the more she felt the ache, the slow-mounting blinding pain that meant that her Angel of Music would never answer her again…_

_"Erik! Erik, please, God, no! ERIK!"_

_He'd lied to her… he had promised that he would always be there…_

_"ERIK! Please, please, don't leave me, not you too... Erik!"_

_"Christine…"_

_She ignored her name, pleading instead, futilely calling him…_

"Christine!"

Christine woke with a strangled cry, sitting bolt upright, thrashing blindly for a moment before she realized that it was her blanket that was twisted around herand that she was in her safe, familiar bedroom in Erik's house. And Erik was standing over her.

Without a second thought, Christine disentangled her arms from her blanket and threw them around Erik's neck, realizing as she did so that there were tears pouring down her cheeks.

Her sudden weight made Erik overbalance, and he sat – more quickly than he would have normally – on the edge of her bed, wrapping his arms around her comfortingly. She pulled herself out of the twisted-up blanket and pressed herself as close as she possibly could against him, as though she needed to feel him there to know that it was true, and that this wasn't the beginning of just another nightmare.

For a long time, he allowed her to simply sob into his shirtfront, and she desperately gripped his shoulders, holding him near her. After a while, he felt her shaking subside a little, and asked her what had happened. Her initial response was muffled immensely by his own shoulder. He shifted slightly so that he was still pressed very close to her, but far enough away for him to hear her when he gently took her tearstained face in his hand.

"What happened, Christine, what were you dreaming about?"

"I… I had this _awful_ n-nightmare, and… I heard my father's voice again… but he was gone so quickly, Erik…! And… and… oh, God…" her voice broke – it was too horrible to even think about… "S-somehow I was… was back onstage… the… the night Buquet… fell… but it wasn't him, Erik, it was… it was you… I th-thought I'd never… never see you again…"

She buried her face in his shoulder once more, each breath short and shuddery, almost a sob.

"Shhhh, Christine, it's all right. I'm here, you're safe…"

"It has nothing to do with me, Erik… it's… it's you I'm worried about… What if Buquet is actually… actually successful? What if he hurts you, what if…" Christine couldn't continue, as though to say 'what if he killed you' would make it all too real…

"He won't, Christine, I promise," he whispered softly into her ear.

They sat together in silence for a long time afterwards. When Christine's breathing finally began to even out and her grip started to relax, Erik thought she had fallen asleep again, and so gathered her small form in his arms, intending to tuck her back under her blankets and leave.

Christine, however, was not asleep, and she seemed to know exactly what he had in mind, for her head snapped up suddenly.

"Please don't leave," she pleaded quietly.

For a moment, Erik could only blink at her; did she understand exactly what she was asking of him? But one look at her told him how frightened she still was, and there was no harm in him staying until she was fast asleep, was there?

"I won't ever leave you, Christine, I promise."

Christine smiled at him, then slowly closed her eyes and allowed her head to droop to rest on his shoulder once again. Erik sighed softly as she snuggled up against him, and he rested his unmasked cheek on the top of her head. There was nothing wrong with closing his eyes, just for a moment…

* * *

_24th November 1881 _

Erik woke slowly. He'd quite forgotten how comfortable it was to fall asleep in a bed – usually, he got what little sleep he required in catnaps at his piano or in the library. He shifted slightly, and opened his eyes with a start.

_Good God._

Christine was curled up against him, sleeping peacefully. He suddenly remembered her nightmare, and her plea for him to stay with her, his resolution to do so only until she was sound asleep… it seemed he had forgotten that last bit somehow. And now she was lying pressed against his side, one arm across his chest, just as he had one arm wrapped around her waist; her head was resting on his shoulder, and there was a soft smile on her face.

Even now, she was so beautiful – with her auburn curls mussed and her simple, white nightdress wrinkled, she was as sweet and innocent as a child. Tenderly, he pushed a stray lock of hair back from her face, mirroring her smile, and reveling in the feeling of her so close to him.

His heartbeat sped up wildly as he fully grasped the situation. Ostensibly of its own accord, his arm tightened around her slender form, and he noticed how odd it was to have his hand pressed only against a layer or two of cotton fabric, rather than stiff silk and corset boning. Each curve of her body seemed to fit perfectly against him, and he was acutely aware of every breath she took.

After another minute or so, his thoughts were far from innocent. He chided himself for such imaginings… though, admittedly, not very hard. He could hardly help it, after all – having Christine so intimately close to him was completely intoxicating.

Suddenly Christine moaned softly and stirred, raising her head slightly and slowly opening her eyes. Erik froze – what was he supposed to do now…?

"Erik?" she asked sleepily, sounding more surprised to find him there than anything else.

"Er… good morning, Christine," he somehow managed, although he found that his throat was oddly constricted all of a sudden.

"You stayed," she said with a huge smile, nestling her head back on his chest and letting her hand drift lazily up to his shoulder.

"Of course I did," he replied shakily. This was sheer torture… he half-wished she knew what her innocent, grateful touch was doing to him at that moment…

Erik forced himself to tear his eyes away from hers and focus on a point just past her, trying to stop his heart from pounding. Puzzled, Christine raised her head, propping herself up slightly on one elbow so that she could see his face more clearly. He looked so tense…

"Erik? Are you all right?" she asked, still sounding confused.

"Fine… I'm… fine…" Erik answered, sitting up as well, both relieved and saddened when he broke contact with her.

Christine, however, was not entirely satisfied with his answer – she'd never seen him act quite this way before… She tilted her head to one side and leaned towards him, forcing him to meet her eyes again. The moment he did, however, she blushed scarlet. The longing in his dark eyes was completely unmistakable.

"You should probably get ready, Christine… rehearsal starts in about an hour, I think," Erik said stiffly, turning away and starting to get to his feet.

Christine reached out and put her arm on his shoulder, halting him.

"Erik…" she began, but she was at a complete loss as to how to continue. How to let him know that he wasn't alarming her in the slightest, that she was only startled… and more by her own wild emotions than his.

But he somehow read it in the look on her face. At last, his resolve broke, and he swept her into his arms and kissed her. After what seemed forever, Christine pulled away, feeling feverish and gasping for breath. She looked back up at Erik, meeting his eyes for a moment before he turned and quickly exited the room.

Neither of them said much on the way up to Christine's dressing room – it was simply too awkward. Fortunately, the chill in the stone passageways had cooled Christine's blush, and she pushed that morning's events to the back of her mind once she'd said goodbye to Erik. She had to concentrate on the opera just then.

Which was by far easier said than done.

* * *

_14th December 1881_

He'd been back at the Opera for a week now, and he hadn't seen a single sign of the Ghost. Not a single flash of black cloak and white mask, not a single echo of laughter down a deserted hallway… nothing.

Buquet would not stand for that. He had not fallen from a catwalk to have the bastard disappear on him! He supposed he was lucky – his leg had healed, and he had convinced himself did not have a greatly pronounced limp; he could not move as fast as he used to, but he could still walk quietly if need be. But what was the use if the Phantom had gone?

He finally reappeared, however, on that cold Wednesday morning. It was during a set change at rehearsal – for a brief moment, he spied a bright splash of white in the dark wings where Christine Daaé stood. Anyone else would have thought the girl was alone; Buquet knew better.

It took a great deal of effort to stop himself from simply jumping out and stabbing the damned Ghost that instant; after all, he'd catch the bastard completely unaware that way. But it seemed that the Phantom was slowly becoming more man than myth… the Ghost was slowly slipping away.

He couldn't have that, now could he?

_16th December 1881_

When Christine left Erik's home for the Opera that morning, she found it almost completely deserted. Wondering what on earth could have happened, and knowing that she wasn't all _that_ early, she cautiously walked through the hallways, making sure that no one saw her in case she had missed something and she wasn't supposed to be there. She'd have a hard time explaining her presence…

When she reached the Grand Foyer, her questions were answered. Thick, heavy, white snow was swirling quickly past the high windows. Rehearsals must have been postponed until the snow stopped; perhaps they had even been cancelled. Hurriedly, she made her way back to her dressing room, opened the mirror, and tentatively called Erik's name down the dark center passageway. She then stepped back into her dressing room, pulled a spare cloak and scarf out of a valise propped up under her dressing table, and hastily threw them on before turning back to the passageway to find Erik.

He had been walking steadily downward for only a few minutes when he appeared, looking puzzled.

"Is everything all right? Why aren't you at rehearsals?" he asked concernedly.

"Everything's fine – but it's snowing. Rehearsals must have been postponed… But Erik, it's so beautiful outside!"

"…And?" he asked, half teasingly.

Christine laughed, then suddenly reached out and grabbed Erik's hand, pulling him back towards the mirror.

"And might I ask just where you're taking me?" Erik asked as he stepped through the mirror, closing it behind him.

"Outside," she replied simply.

Erik froze. What exactly was she playing at? She seemed to understand his trepidation immediately.

"Erik, it's _snowing_. There won't be anyone else around, I promise. And if there is someone else nearby, they'll be too busy with the snow to notice us. Please, Erik? It hasn't snowed in such a long time…" she looked up at him with a hopeful smile in her soft blue eyes, and Erik resigned almost instantly.

Christine was right; there wasn't a single person outside the front façade of the Opera House. There wasn't even a single track marring the surface of the white snow yet. The whiteness intensified the few other colors; the black iron of the gas lamps, the blue of Christine's cloak and the bright red of her scarf. Everything else was white and muted grey, and the world was silent save for the soft crunch of their feet on the snow.

Feeling almost as though she were twelve years old again, Christine happily watched the snowflakes swirling down from the sky, settling on her shoulders, in her hair, contrasting sharply with Erik's black hat and cloak. The chill didn't bother her at all – she had always loved snow. In silence, she took a few steps away from Erik, quietly marveling in the unexpected winter wonderland.

Suddenly, she turned to look back at Erik. He was staring pensively at the swirling whiteness around him, not looking at her. With difficulty, Christine suppressed a laugh; she quietly bent down, gathered a handful of snow, and aimed carefully…

Her snowball hit him squarely in the shoulder just as he was turning to look at her. He stared down at the spread of white, fluffy snow across his black cloak and jacket, then glanced up at her, a puzzled look on his face, and finally back to the snow on his shoulder as he brushed it off. Christine burst out laughing, attempting to subdue her giggles behind her hand.

She stopped laughing, momentarily stunned, when another snowball slammed into her own shoulder. For a moment, she simply stared at Erik, mouth agape, before laughing again and diving for more snow.

A rather wild snowball fight ensued. Fluffy white powder flew everywhere, and soon enough Christine even had Erik laughing – one of her snowballs somehow managed to knock his hat off. For quite some time afterwards, he chased her in circles, waving his hat around, occasionally throwing another snowball, although more often ducking hers. After nearly twenty minutes, when they were both out of breath and nearly frozen, their snow duel culminated in Erik finally catching up to Christine and wrapping her in his arms from behind. She leaned gratefully against him, half laughing, half panting.

"Now, that wasn't so horrible, was it?" she asked, twisting her head around to look at him.

"Not at all," he said with a smile.

Slowly, they made their way back inside and back to Christine's dressing room, neither one wanting the morning to end.

* * *

A/N: Now, if it would only snow _here_, like it's _supposed to _during winter... grrrr...

I hope you enjoyed that! Please let me know what you think - your feedback is always soooo appreciated. Thanks for reading! --Kyrie

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	26. Christmas Lullaby

A/N: Hello, all! Happy Friday! And happy FF-messaging-is-fixed-so-you'll-all-actually-get-this-update!!! I'm in a really good mood - I started singing "Somewhere" from West Side Story in voice today. Twas fun!

And so, to maybe make your Friday just that much more Friday-ish, here's that long-awaited Christmas chapter!!! The title is actually from a Christmas song we did in chorus that has absolutely nothing to do with the plot, but it's _such_ a beautiful song and the title worked well. I hope you enjoy it, belated though it is!

Oh, bother, I almost forgot: thanks to ladyAlyafaelyn, StakeMeSpike04, mikabronxgirl, Luckii.Jinx, mildetryth, draegon-fire, phantom-jedi1, and Anges Radieux for their reviews, and also whiteroom for her email. Thanks guys!!!

* * *

Chapter 26: Christmas Lullaby

_23rd December 1881_

The Opera was closed for four days for Christmas. Sighing heavily, Christine stared out of the window in her small kitchen. Little white snow flurries drifted lazily past the windowpanes, bright spots on the still grey sky.

It was Erik who had insisted she return to her own home for the Christmas break. True, she desperately needed the respite from the recently hectic atmosphere of the Opera itself… but she couldn't bear the thought of Erik spending Christmas alone. And she hadn't even had the time to get him a present…

In a sudden burst of movement, Christine got to her feet, grabbed her bag, swung her cloak around her shoulders, and was out the door without a second thought. It was time for some last-minute Christmas shopping.

As she strolled past little shop windows, weaving through the bustling crowds of irritable, hurrying people bundled up against the chill wind, she realized how different from them she was at that moment. She'd been seeing the world through rose-colored glasses of late…

At last, she pushed open the door to a dusty little music shop, the bell over the doorway tinkling merrily. She often visited this particular shop; it was well-known for carrying slightly obscure sheet music, and perhaps it would have the selection of Christmas carols that she was searching for. After rifling through the assortment for a few minutes, she found exactly what she had been looking for and then turned to see what she could give Erik before realizing she had no idea what to get for him. There was no way for her to tell what music he had and what he didn't, as it was scattered across his music room, jumbled in with his own compositions. She could look for a bookshop… but he had so much in his library that she had only noticed about a quarter of the titles. Thinking hard, she walked to and fro among the shelves, occasionally stopping to look more closely at one of the neatly bound books of manuscript paper, but always putting it back.

She was on her third round of the little shop when she spotted it. It was sitting on the counter, surrounded by several other knickknacks, but it stood out quite clearly. Taking a few quick steps over to the counter, she picked it up, silently examining it more closely. It was a small wooden box, small enough for her hand to enclose three of its four sides. The paint on it was dark blue, almost black, and the sides were dotted with little silver stars. The top, however, bore four lines of silvery text, written in a sloping, slanting script hand:

_Though my soul may set in darkness,_

_it will rise in perfect light;_

_I have loved the stars too fondly_

_to be fearful of the night._

Christine stared at the box for a long moment before realizing that there was a small silver key at the back. _A music box!_ Eagerly, she wound up the key and listened as the sweet, tinkling melody played, filling the silent, dusty shop with bell-like notes. As it played for a second time, she realized that the words on the top of the box fit perfectly into the melody.

"May I help you?"

Christine jumped, tearing her eyes away from the box and looking up to find the old proprietor of the shop, standing behind the counter and regarding her with what was almost a cheeky grin.

"Monsieur Bernard! I'm sorry; I didn't hear you come in…"

"Obviously not, Mademoiselle," Monsieur Bernard replied. He liked this young woman – she did not come to his shop very frequently, but when she did come, they had often had long discussions on whatever music she was looking at or, though seldom, buying. "I see you found the music box."

"It's beautiful, Monsieur," she responded, looking back at the little box. "How… how much is it?" Although her raise in status had given her a small raise in salary, she still couldn't afford anything too expensive…

"Something to put hairpins in, Mam'selle?"

"Oh, no, this isn't for me… it's for my teacher, Monsieur… he would love it."

"Your teacher, eh? And you're sure he'd like it?" he asked, raising one bushy white eyebrow.

"Yes… it's perfect," Christine said softly, not looking at him.

Monsieur Bernard smiled at her and named a sum far smaller than she had expected. She quickly paid for the music box and the Christmas carols, carefully putting both into her bag.

"Thank you, sir, thank you very much," she said just before turning to leave.

"You're welcome, Mademoiselle. Merry Christmas to you."

"Thank you, Monsieur, and Merry Christmas to you too!"

She was grinning from ear to ear when she left the shop, hurrying back to her flat to wrap the music box; she had only to think of what the look on Erik's face might be when she came and her steps quickened. After she had woken in the middle of the night from that horrific nightmare, Erik had given her an extra key to the Rue Scribe entrance to his home and shown her how to find it, in case she should need him. Wouldn't he be surprised when, instead of returning on Tuesday as expected, she appeared on Christmas Day!

* * *

_25th December 1881_

Erik sat at his piano, one hand absently plunking out nonsense on the keys while the other fingered the brightly wrapped package that was Christine's Christmas gift. It seemed so out of place in his home; he'd never given anyone a Christmas gift before, had never had any reason to. Now, the crinkly red and green paper sat forlornly on the top of his piano; he wouldn't even have a chance to give it to her.

_It's your own idiotic fault_, he chided himself. What had possessed him to send Christine home to her own flat for the Christmas break? He knew how much she needed a rest, true… but she had always seemed so happy in his home. Had he perhaps made a mistake? No, he knew he had – even though she had been gone only two days, he'd never missed anything or anyone more in his life.

Suddenly, from under a pile of loose manuscript paper, he pulled out a blank piece of paper and a pencil and began sketching furiously. After about twenty minutes, the lines had assembled into a drawing of Christine, from the day of the snowball fight. She was laughing and looking over her shoulder… but at what? Reluctantly, he added himself to the side of the drawing, reasoning that one person could not have a snowball fight alone. But he seemed to be just a dark smudge on the edge of the paper… and so he stuffed it back under the music he'd first pulled the paper out from under.

Just as he did so, there was a soft knock at the music room door. Erik very nearly jumped ten feet in the air; how could anyone have gotten in…?

"Erik? Are you there?" Christine said, pushing the door open and poking her head around it.

When she saw Erik staring down at her in complete shock, she burst out laughing. "I'm sorry, Erik," she managed. "I didn't mean to frighten you!"

"You didn't, I… I just wasn't expecting you…"

"Of course not, you silly man, that would have ruined my surprise!" She stepped round the door and into the room to stand just in front of him. "Merry Christmas, Erik."

Erik didn't respond for a moment, unsure of what to say.

"Merry Christmas, Christine…" he finally replied.

Christine smiled and swung her cloak off her shoulders, carefully folding it and placing it over her bag on the floor, making sure his present wasn't showing. She was still holding the book of Christmas carols, however, and it didn't take long for Erik to ask about it.

"I found it the other day… I thought perhaps we could…" Christine trailed off, suddenly feeling awkward. Erik took the music book when she held it out and looked askance at the cover.

"Christmas carols?" he asked.

"Yes, of course, Erik. It _is_ Christmas."

He glanced quickly down at the titles listed; _Adeste Fideles_, _Angels We Have Heard on High_, _Silent Night_… could he really admit to her that he didn't know a single one? Well, of course he'd heard them before, he was sure of that, but he couldn't put a tune to any of those titles.

"Christine, I… I don't know any of these very well…" he confessed uncomfortably.

"You don't?" she replied, startled. She was so used to him knowing anything and everything about music… but suddenly her eyes flicked to his mask and she remembered what he had told her of his past, just how dark and cold it had been… "Didn't… didn't you ever celebrate Christmas, with… your family?"

Erik couldn't help himself; he laughed.

"The only family I ever knew was my mother, and she could barely stand to come near me with a ten-foot pole," he said, perhaps a little more scathingly than he had meant to. "The only time I ever mentioned Christmas, she asked me what right a demon had to celebrate Christ's birthday. I… left home not long afterwards."

"Oh…" Christine said, her eyes wide. "I… I'm so sorry, Erik, perhaps I shouldn't have…"

Damn… now he knew he'd gone too far.

"No, Christine, it's all right. I would like it very much if you showed me what I've been missing all these years."

Christine smiled, now more determined than ever to make this a very memorable day. She took the music back from Erik and flipped through it for a moment before she found her favorite carol. Propping it up on the piano, she smiled at Erik, clearly waiting for him. He returned her smile and sat down, scanning the chords for a few moments before starting to play. She'd chosen _O Holy Night_; so far, it was very pretty.

But when Christine began to sing, it was instantly one of the most beautiful songs he'd ever heard. Erik had almost forgotten what it was like to have her sing only for him; her schedule had been so tight of late that they had only had the time to run through a few parts of _Roméo et Juliette. _But she was putting everything she had into this simple melody, he knew it.

"_O Holy Night, the stars are brightly shining_

_It is the night of our dear Savior's birth_

_Long lay the world in sin and error pining_

_Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth_

_A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices_

_For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn_…"

As he listened to her sing those words, he realized what Christine had saved him from, that if anyone could chase away the horrors of his past, she could.

Christine kept her eyes fixed on Erik as she sang, even though she could not see his face, as she was standing on his right side, the masked side. When he played the last chords, however, he turned to look up at her. He didn't say a word, but he didn't need to; he simply smiled at her, and she returned it with a soft smile of her own.

* * *

"_I have loved the stars too fondly_

_to be fearful of the night_… Christine, it's… it's beautiful. Thank you…"

Erik spoke over the sweet melody of the music box he had just unwrapped. The two of them were sitting on the floor of his library, curled in front of the little fireplace, lit for the first time in years. He'd never really seen any point before, but now that Christine sat with her head on his shoulder, smiling happily up at him as he held her Christmas gift to him almost reverently, there seemed to be quite a lot of reason for it.

"I had so hoped you would like it, Erik," she replied, instinctively nestling closer to him. He smiled, wrapping his arm gently around her waist, thrilled when she covered his hand with hers.

"I… I have something for you as well, Christine," he said quietly, putting down the music box when it finished playing and picking up the thin package next to him.

Christine took it and thanked him quietly before carefully unwrapping it. As she pulled the red and green paper away, a hand-bound paper book fell into her lap. The cover was strewn with beautifully drawn, intertwined red roses. Silently, she opened it to the first page and saw Erik's spidery writing on the blank paper:

_For my Angel of Music_

Hardly daring to breathe, Christine turned to the next page, and, sure enough, there was one of Erik's own compositions. She leafed quickly through the book and found not one, but four of his songs… and he had written them for her.

"You… you made this all yourself?" she asked, looking up at him just in time to see him nod. "Oh, Erik, it's wonderful! Thank you so much!"

She read through one of the songs before turning back to him.

"Erik? Would you… would you sing one of them for me? Please?"

He was only slightly surprised by this request, and so he nodded and, although unwillingly, Christine sat up to allow him to breathe properly. Erik thought for a moment about which song to choose, not looking at Christine, but only for a moment. He cleared his throat and began…

"_Night-time sharpens, heightens each sensation_

_Darkness wakes and stirs imagination_

_Silently the senses abandon their defenses_…"

Christine could only stare at him; she'd completely lost herself in his voice from the very first note. The song was so beautiful, so mesmerizing, so thrilling… every nuance sent a shiver down her spine. She smiled at him when he finally grew bold enough to look at her, unable to tear her eyes away.

Erik smiled back, empowered by the look in her eyes. He suddenly got to his feet, offering Christine his hand and helping her up. He continued to sing to her, allowing his hand to drift up to touch her cheek, slide down to her shoulder… he walked around behind her, still keeping his hand lightly on her shoulder as he did.

Christine closed her eyes with a sigh as she felt his arm wrap around her waist from behind, holding her tightly against his chest. She leaned almost sleepily against him, tucking the top of her head under his chin, but even so, her heart was racing as he began the next verse…

"_Floating, falling, sweet intoxication_

_Touch me, trust me, savour each sensation_

_Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in_

_To the power of the music that I write;_

_The power of the music of the night…_

_You alone can make my song take flight_

_Help me make the music of the night_…!"

Neither one moved as Erik's final note died away; neither one had any intention of moving for quite some time. They eventually sank back to the floor as one, watching the flames in the fireplace grow steadily lower in silence. Much later, when Erik thought she had drifted off to sleep, Christine raised her head to look up at him, a drowsy smile on her face.

"Erik?" she asked gently.

"Mmmm?"

"Merry Christmas."

* * *

A/N: Those four lines on the music box are an exerpt from "The Old Astronomer to His Pupil" by Sarah Williams, an American poet, written in 1868. It was, at some point, set to music, because I heard it first as a camp song that my best friend sang to me once (although misquoted as having been Leonardo da Vinci, I believe) and at one point I did find that the music it was set to was Beethoven or Bach, but I can't remember which one or where I found that... my apologies. If I ever get a camcorder, I'll sing it and put it up on YouTube so you can hear it.

_O Holy Night_ (originally _Cantique de Noël_) was composed in 1847 by Adolphe Adam, using a French poem "Minuit, chrétiens" by Placide Cappeau as the lyrics. It was translated into English in 1855. Known for its difficulty, it has been sung by such diverse singers as Maria Callas, Linda Eder, the group Celtic Woman, and Celine Dion, among many others. It's also my favorite Christmas carol... so I couldn't help but use it.

_Adeste Fideles _is the Latin version of _O Come All Ye Faithful_, composed by John Francis Wade in 1743. _Angels We Have Heard on High _is based on a traditional French carol; the English version was written in 1862. Its most memorable feature is its chorus: _Gloria in Excelsis Deo!_ where the sung vowel sound "o" of "Gloria" is fluidly sustained through a lengthy rising and falling melismatic melodic sequence. And _Silent Night_ is a traditional German carol, written in 1818.

Thanks for reading - please review! Ah!!! Must dash - Kyrie


	27. Playing With Fire

A/N: Friday! Yay!!! _And _I have a three-day weekend - more yay!!! Thanks to mikabronxgirl, ladyAlyafaelyn, Luckii.Jink, Katherine Silverhair, mildetryth, phantom-jedi1, Mystery Guest, Kinetic Asparagus, I'm stalking you, Kathryn Glover, Anges Radieux, and HDKingsbury for their lovely reviews! I'm glad you guys all liked the snow!

I hope you like this chapter as well. Bear with me here - there's something I added in the second section that may surprise you, but there is a reason for it, I assure you. --cackles evilly--

There's also something at the end that is rather out of character... for me. I've never written anything like that... er... my friends were pretty shocked. And I'll go off and whistle and stare at the ceiling now...

Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 27: Playing With Fire 

_29th December 1881_

"Please, Erik?"

"No."

"But Erik, _everyone_ will be wearing a mask! It's a masquerade ball – no one will know who you are," Christine prodded. She intended to get him to the Opera's New Year's celebration if it was the last thing she did.

"I don't recall you attending the masquerade before now – what makes this year any different?" he said, remaining adamant. He was facing away from her, staring at the wall, as though concentrating on something other than Christine might help…

"Because I didn't have anyone to go _with_ before now," she replied quietly.

Erik squeezed his eyes shut at that. He knew exactly what she was offering him – a chance, perhaps his only chance, to be among people without the stares, the frightened cries, the insults. A chance, even if for just a few hours, to be an ordinary man.

And when she added that she truly wanted to go with him, he was lost.

He turned slowly, catching her eyes as he did so.

"All right, Christine. You win."

An ecstatic grin instantly broke out on Christine's face, and she threw her arms around his neck in gratitude.

"Thank you, Erik! It'll be such fun, I promise you!" she said happily once she had released him and backed away.

He couldn't help but return her smile

* * *

_31st December 1881_

Christine could hardly wait; she was back in her own flat, putting the finishing touches on her masquerade costume, a magnificent Tudor-style gown. The full dark-blue skirt split in the middle to show the white underdress beneath it, and the flared sleeves and square neck were trimmed with gold to match the laces on the front of the snug bodice. She had carefully braided her hair into a coronet at the back of her head, although a few stray curls had escaped her and framed her face. Taking one last look in the mirror and hoping that Erik would like her choice of costume, she donned her mask and cloak just as he arrived at the door.

"Good evening, my lady," he said, sweeping a bow when he saw her costume; she looked marvelous.

"Erik!" Christine giggled, and he straightened up, grinning at her.

He had chosen to dress as Othello; the full black mask and black gloves made that clear. It also allowed him to wear a mask that covered his whole face without arousing any suspicion; he had made absolutely certain that no one would see him and think of the Opera Ghost. It was not likely that anyone would recognize him – the dove-grey tunic he wore was a far cry from his customary dress shirt, although he still wore his black cloak.

Erik was barely able to keep the wide smile off his face as Christine followed him down the stairs. When they reached the Opera, he had composed himself and was the picture of the perfect gentleman; instead, it was Christine grinning from ear to ear as she slipped her arm through his.

No one stared at him as they entered the main hall; no one stared at him as Christine greeted Monsieur Lefévre, or as the two of them joined the crowd at the other end of the long room. He could simply listen to the music and watch the people move about without anyone shrieking at him. For the first time in his life, his was just another mask in the multitude. It was an amazing feeling.

Still close by his side, Christine scanned the crowd to see if she recognized anyone. After a few moments, she found Meg and Carlos, as well as Madame Giry. There were a few other members of the company she recognized, but she turned her attention back to Erik as the orchestra began to play a waltz.

"Would you care to dance, Mademoiselle?" Erik asked, taking the hint.

"I would like that very much, Monsieur," she replied, echoing his falsely formal tone.

As they danced, Erik suddenly pulled Christine scandalously close to him.

"Erik!" she gasped, "We're not… supposed to stand this close together…"

"But where's the fun in that?" he replied with a devilish grin, but he stepped back.

The waltz ended far too soon for either of them. Erik was just about to ask Christine for the next dance as well when he spotted Adele in the crowd. Wouldn't she be surprised to see him… He simply couldn't pass up the opportunity.

"If you would excuse me for a moment, Christine… I'll be right back."

Christine nodded, slightly puzzled, but decided to take the opportunity to greet Meg and Carlos without awkward questions about her companion from either of them. She began to look around for them again, but someone else found her first.

"Christine?" Raoul said, coming up alongside her. "What a pleasant surprise! I've been trying to find you for some time now!"

"Good evening, Raoul," she said politely, then joked "You can't have been looking very hard – I was just dancing."

"No, I didn't mean here – I meant I've been trying to talk to you recently and haven't been able to find you. It seems that Christine Daaé has ceased to exist outside the Paris Opera!"

Christine laughed, even though what he said was essentially true.

"Why were you looking for me?"

"Partially just to have a chance to talk to you," he said with an elegant shrug before continuing. "But I was also beginning to be concerned – what was all this about the Phantom? I've heard more rumors about him recently than anything else that's caused an uproar at this Opera."

_Oh bother_, Christine thought.

"That's all they were, Raoul – rumors. Where do you get such ideas? The Phantom of the Opera… it's just gossip, really it is," she answered, smiling reassuringly and easily brushing his worries aside; Raoul laughed, returning her smile.

"Well, now that I've finally stumbled across you, may I have this dance?"

_Oh, _bother…

"I… I really couldn't, Raoul, I…"

"Nonsense! There's no harm in sharing a dance with an old friend, is there?"

He looked so hopeful… Christine almost had no choice but to agree, as she didn't want to hurt him, and something told her that explaining Erik would not be a good idea. The moment they began to dance, she knew it had been a mistake. It just felt so _wrong_…

Erik didn't see how she struggled to smile at the boy. He simply stood at the back of the hall, watching them and counting the seconds until the dance ended. When Christine finally stepped away from him, he brightened at the way she quickly excused herself and immediately sought him in the throng. The moment she came up to him, she seemed to know that he'd been watching.

"I'm sorry, Erik, I just couldn't turn him down… Raoul is an old family friend, and I really didn't want to seem rude… But I should have said no."

Erik had to smile at her.

"It's all right, Christine, you needn't apologize." All the same, he was glad to hear it.

The two of them stayed at the back of the crowd for quite some time, conversing on the music and the costumes of the other revelers. It took great effort for Christine to keep her head from drooping onto his shoulder as they talked, as she had become so accustomed to recently, but she contended herself by slipping her arm through his again.

Suddenly, she was interrupted by a loud cackle from the other end of the hall. Everyone present jerked up towards the sound, but whoever had laughed had fallen silent. An uneasy quiet fell over all present for a moment – it hadn't sounded at all like someone laughing too loud. It had been deliberate, and of ill intent.

A few minutes later, a silent figure appeared in the doorway, quietly working his way through the crowd, not speaking, not acknowledging anyone. Instantly, whispers of 'Red Death!' spread through the company – the figure wore a long, thick red cloak with the cloak pulled over his head, only just barely showing the glaringly white skull mask he wore. The thoughts of the overly-superstitious actors instantly flew to Poe's tale of horror…

Meg, however, instantly thought of something else: the Phantom. What was he up to? Why had he appeared at the masquerade? She instantly tried to find Christine in the crowd, and saw her standing at the edge of the hall, saw her pale when she noticed the new arrival. It didn't take long for Meg to reach her.

"Christine… what's going on?" she asked warily.

"How am I to know? That's not Erik," Christine replied stiffly.

"It's not? But how do you know?"

"Because I've been talking to him for the past half-hour, that's how," Christine replied, almost irritably. Would they never tire of blaming Erik?

The man standing beside Christine, who Meg had not noticed until then, suddenly stepped forward and inclined his head.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle Giry," he said, and Meg's eyes widened in surprise – that was unmistakably Erik's voice.

"G-good evening, monsieur… I'm sorry, I didn't…" Meg fell silent, completely unsure of what to say next.

"I think I know who that is, though," Christine said, still looking at the red-cloaked figure.

"You do?" Erik asked, sounding incredulous.

"Watch him walk… look, he's limping slightly, you see? And Meg, you might remember the production of _Faust_ we did several years ago – do you recognize that cloak now? Méphistophélès wore it. It seems that Buquet has simply raided the props room."

Erik saw it instantly.

"It's obvious that he wants us to _think _it's me, though… why?" he asked.

_God, but you have no idea how strange that sounds_… Meg thought, only just barely keeping herself from staring at Erik.

"I haven't any idea… but something tells me whatever his intentions are, they aren't good," Christine replied, turning to look back at Erik.

"I have an idea," Meg said suddenly, then suddenly strode off in the direction of Buquet.

"What is she doing?" Christine asked anxiously, trying to move forward, Erik right behind her.

Meg marched right up to the 'Phantom', halting him in his tracks.

"_Bonjour, Monsieur le Fântome_," she said cheerily. "What brings you here?"

The Phantom simply growled at her – another clue that it wasn't really Erik; he couldn't mimic the Phantom's voice.

"Surely you're not planning some sort of disaster?" she continued to chatter brightly, "Personally, I don't think you're very frightening. Come now – a laugh, a red cloak, and a skull mask. Not exactly the stuff of nightmares, monsieur. Why don't I just…"

Meg's hand shot out to pull the mask off, but she wasn't quick enough.

"Insolent girl!" the Phantom snarled, sounding almost convincing in his anger, and he lashed out at Meg with his fist.

Completely unprepared, Meg lost her balance when he struck her, and she fell to the floor in an inelegant heap.

"Meg!" Christine cried, running forward in time to help her friend to her feet.

They both looked around, but the 'Ghost' had already shoved his way through the crowd and was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Erik… perhaps this wasn't such a good idea after all," Christine said quietly.

They had left the masquerade and were now in Christine's dressing room. She took off her mask and therefore set it down on her dressing table, then turned to look up at Erik. He was still masked, and she could not read his expression at all.

"It's not your fault, Christine… before this imposter appeared, it was a thoroughly enjoyable evening," he reassured her.

"If only we knew what he was up to… what on earth is there to be gained by pretending to be you?"

"I have no idea… I doubt he's stepping up to fill the increasingly available post of Opera Ghost," he said, half-bitterly.

Christine, however, smiled at him. It had not gone unnoticed on her part; she had seen quite clearly how little he was acting the phantom now.

"No, I wouldn't think so. This place doesn't need a ghost," she said softly, reaching up and gently lifting his Othello mask away.

Erik was surprised for a moment, and had half a mind to ask for it back, but any thoughts of that nature died when he saw her hopeful smile.

"I'm glad you had a good time, Erik… at least, before Red Death appeared."

"It was most enjoyable, Christine," he said, mirroring her smile and gently touching her cheek.

Suddenly, Christine reached up and kissed him, intending to step away quickly…

Erik, however, had other plans. He wrapped her tightly in his arms, pressing her to him. Without even thinking, he deepened their kiss. A sudden, desperate need drove him on, and when she slid her arms around his neck, it only added to that. He kissed her more fiercely than he ever had before, not allowing her to catch her breath, thrilled when he felt her respond. Erik heard her gasp as his hand trailed up the front of her bodice, his fingers coming to rest just above the neckline of her dress, his thumb brushing over the laces as though contemplating…

_Dear God no. _

Quickly, he jerked away, even though he felt hardly able to stand. For a moment, he simply stared at Christine. She was looking just as shocked as he was, gasping for breath. Only a moment, and then he had vanished through the mirror once again.

* * *

The moment Erik was gone, Christine sank down on her chair and closed her eyes, shaking, trying to douse the unexpected fire that had erupted in her moments before…

God, but she had never felt like _this_ before! She hadn't wanted Erik to leave, hadn't wanted him to stop… Words could barely describe the sensation that filled her so completely. That kiss had been unlike anything she had ever experienced in her life; terrifying, exhilarating, dizzying… and she had not wanted it to end.

_So much for the innocent chorus girl_…

Just as she finally got her breathing under control again, there was a knock at her door, and she shot to her feet.

"Christine? Can I come in?" Meg asked.

"Of… of course, Meg," she replied as Meg opened the door and entered, shutting it again behind her. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine; it probably won't even bruise…" Meg began, but suddenly cocked her head and began to look suspiciously at Christine.

Her friend looked mildly shocked, alarmed, even, and was trying her best to conceal it. And on top of that…

"Meg?" Christine asked, noticing that she was staring at her.

"Your lips are swollen," Meg said skeptically.

Christine's eyes widened in horror, and her hand flew to her mouth. She immediately looked away from Meg, trying to find anywhere, anything to look at instead of her friend's expression… and her eyes fell on Erik's black mask lying forgotten on her dressing table beside her own. She blushed bright red when she new Meg had noticed it as well.

"Christine… you have some explaining to do…" Meg said, noticing that she sounded like her mother and not caring.

But Christine simply couldn't tell Meg what had just happened. She doubted that she would be able to explain it to anyone, even herself.

Especially herself.

* * *

A/N: Méphistophélès: the devil's name in _Faust_.

Running away now. --turns beet red--

Thanks for reading! --Kyrie


	28. Cold Shoulder

A/N: Happy Friday! Me encanta los viernes!

Ahem. In any case, thanks to mikabronxgirl, whiteroom, mildetryth, Anges Radieux, The Phangirl, phantom-jedi1, draegon-fire, Marieena, Lucia Sasaki, LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath, Kinetic Asparagus, Stephanie Destler, luckii.jinx, ladyAlyafaelyn, HDKingsbury, and Giggle Woman for their awesome reviews! I'm glad you guys all liked my... er... deviation from my norm.

I'm not so sure about this chapter... when I first wrote it, I thought it was perhaps a little superfluous, but it is _very _in-character, I think, and my lovely betas liked it, so it's stayed. I hope you enjoy it!

Wednesday, 24th January: I've added a new section to this, to show some time passage. Thanks, phantom-jedi1!

* * *

Chapter 28: Cold Shoulder 

_31st December 1881_

Erik did not stop or slow down until he reached his music room; only then did he allow himself to collapse against the door he had slammed behind him. Each deep, ragged breath he forced himself to take washed away some of the new burning sensation that filled him from head to toe. He shut his eyes tightly, curled his hands into fists, tried to forget what had just happened.

But he couldn't.

What in hell had possessed him? He had kissed Christine before, hadn't he? Why this… this sudden desire? But no, it wasn't sudden; they had both known it the morning after Christine's nightmare, but both of them had chosen to ignore it. Why did he have to show it now, just when everything had been going so well…

He knew exactly what might have happened if he had stayed. And she wouldn't have stopped him. Perhaps that was the worst part – knowing exactly how much he had changed her. He knew that he couldn't bring himself to do this to her any longer; this was one masquerade he had carried on for far too long. There was nothing he had to offer her, and she deserved a life far better than the one he was fated to. He could not tie her to that, no matter how much he loved her.

Finally letting his legs give out, he slid down the door rather gracelessly until he was sitting half-sprawled on the floor, ironing his face with his hands. Only then did he realize that he had left his Othello mask behind. He almost had to laugh – what could Christine possibly see in a monster such as him? He had already dragged her into more than enough trouble, trouble she would never have gotten into on her own, and now her friend had been attacked as well. And all because of him. What right had he to feel the things he did about her?

He had half a mind to run, to choose a direction and travel until he could go no further… but the thought of never seeing her face again, even if only from a distance, was far too painful. But then, he was the Phantom, wasn't he? It would be child's play for him to hide in his own Opera House.

* * *

_3rd January 1882_

Although the Christmas break had been welcome, Christine was glad to come back to the Opera. She had thought it best that she return to her own flat for the remainder of her time off after what had happened at the masquerade; she knew Erik would have a hard time facing her after that. But now she wanted to see him more than anything…

There hadn't been any sign of him all through rehearsal, or beforehand. Usually, he at least said hello to her over the course of the day… was he perhaps caught up in his music, or had he forgotten that everyone returned from break? Well, whatever the case, she would find him.

_Maybe he's waiting for me in my dressing room_, she thought, and hurried down the hallway to see if he was there.

When she opened the door to her little room, however, there was no tall, black-clad figure waiting for her, no voice greeting her from behind the mirror. _Perhaps he has forgotten that we come back today_…

"Erik? Are you there?" she asked softly. There was no reply.

"Of course he can't hear you, if he's not above ground!" she muttered distractedly.

Another thought struck her, one not quite as appealing as the thought of him lost in his composing. Was he somewhere else in the Opera, half-hidden in the shadows? Was he playing the Ghost again? _Oh, Erik_…

Well, there was only one way to find out. She knew she could not search the entire Opera House by herself in the few hours she had before the performance, but she could try. The first place she looked was Box Five, but the silence and the dark, treacherous shadows she saw there when she opened the door soon chased her away. She met with similar results in every other place she looked; why was it that the darker corners of the Opera seemed so much more foreboding when Erik was not with her?

Finally, she had no more time – she had to prepare for the performance – and still she had not found Erik. Was he that afraid to face her after what had happened at the masquerade? Could he be angry with her? Was he _deliberately _avoiding her for some reason?

_No, no, Erik wouldn't do that… he loves me, he would want to see me just as much as I want to see him… could something have happened to him? Is he hurt, ill? Or perhaps just busy… for goodness' sake, Christine, it's been one day and you go out of your mind with worry! Relax, wait until tomorrow…_

She would look for him again the next day, but in all probability Erik was just preoccupied that day… it would be all right.

Erik had been watching her from the shadows the entire time. It was so easy to hide from her… but each time she called his name it was harder for him to ignore it. _Why was he doing this, why, why, why_…? He had to remind himself over and over that it was for Christine's sake, that she would be safer, happier, without him, but each time he saw her face, heard her call him, it was harder to push aside what he truly wanted to do – step out of the shadows and gather her in his arms and never, ever let her go.

Finally he gave up watching her; better to quit while he was still ahead. He forced himself to return to his house on the lake, his self-imposed prison now, without even watching the performance. He had to constantly remind himself why he was putting them both through this torture…

_It's better this way, it's better this way, it's better this way_…

* * *

_5th January 1882_

It had been four days since Christine had last seen Erik, and she was beginning to get worried. She had even visited his house on the lake the night before, calling softly for him in the darkness, but he had not been there, as far as she could tell. But something about the quiet house buzzed; she knew he wasn't far away, that he was choosing to remain out of sight. When she had realized that, the thought nearly reduced her to tears.

Why was Erik avoiding her? What had happened… could something be wrong? She had begged and pleaded with the silent house for as long as she dared, but to no avail. Finally, she had returned to her own flat, but sleep had not come easily. Now she was simply tired, on top of worried and upset. She was at her wit's end – she couldn't explain this to Meg, and couldn't find Erik herself… she had no idea where to turn. Although a nagging voice at the back of her mind told her that if she could not find Erik, no one could, Christine tried desperately to think of someone, anyone, to talk to, someone who might know a solution…

That morning, her thoughts had finally turned to Madame Giry. However unlikely it might seem, she remembered the way the ballet mistress had acted the night she had been sick and Meg had screamed when she found Erik in her dressing room with her… it had seemed almost like Madame Giry knew Erik.

Well, it was worth a try, wasn't it? Anything was now.

Reyer had given the cast an unexpected break, and Christine had immediately gone to seek out Madame Giry. When she came to her small room a few corridors away from the stage, she knocked tentatively at the door, relieved when the ballet mistress' voice answered and told her to come in.

"Christine? This is a surprise; come in, have a seat," Adele said when she saw Christine's head poke around the door. Underneath the pleasantries, she could already tell that the girl was distressed.

"Thank you," Christine replied quietly, sitting down opposite Madame Giry and starting to twist her hands together again. "Madame, I… I have a rather… strange question to ask you… do you… Do you know Erik?"

Adele's eyebrows rose immediately, wondering why on earth Christine could be asking her such a thing.

"Yes," she responded simply, keeping her voice low; one never knew who was about in this Opera. "Why do you ask?"

Christine paused for a moment before looking up to meet Adele's eyes. For one silent instant, Adele saw everything that Christine had been going through for the past few days, every worry, every fear, every anguish. She then began to explain everything that had happened at the masquerade and afterwards, and about her qualms over Erik's sudden disappearance.

"I… I just don't know what… what could have happened. I wish I understood why he's refusing to speak to me… have I done something wrong? I… I know it's only been a few days, but… I miss him so much…"

Christine trailed off, not wanting to risk sounding any more ridiculous than she probably already did, or driving herself to tears.

Madame Giry had known Erik too long to miss the reason behind this, however. Poor Christine; she had tried so hard, and still Erik's insecurities barred the way.

"No, my dear, you haven't done anything wrong; you've done everything right."

"Then why…"

"He'll explain it to you himself, I'm sure. Now, why don't you go back to rehearsal – I'll find him and have a word with him."

"But if I can't find him…" she didn't finish; what she meant was perfectly clear.

"Don't worry, Christine, I'll find him. He's not expecting me."

Christine nodded, thanked her, and left, hoping that Madame Giry was right.

* * *

It didn't take Adele long to find Erik. She had only been to his home once before, and only just knew the way, but once she arrived it was very easy to bring Erik out of hiding. 

"Erik! I'll have a word with you, if you please!" she said loudly and commandingly.

In his complete shock, Erik found himself appearing in the hallway to stare at her against his better judgment. After a moment, he turned on his heel and walked back into the music room, with Adele following right behind.

"You cad, Erik! You promised me you wouldn't hurt her!" she snapped angrily at him.

Erik spun around to look at her, his eyes wide.

"I would _never_ harm Christine. Is she all right? What's happened?"

"I never expected you to _physically_ harm her, Erik – this is just what I meant! She's fine, aside from being worried sick about you," she answered stiffly.

Erik froze for a moment, then turned away again.

"And don't give me any nonsense about 'you had to.' I don't see why, Erik! You told me that you already explained everything to her, and yet she still accepts you! She still loves you! What in the world has caused you to decide otherwise – some kind of chivalrous inclination?"

"Adele…" Erik began, but knew it would sound feeble. Even to himself, his reasoning seemed faulty now.

"And she told me that she came here looking for you – you were hiding all along, weren't you, and you ignored her?! How could you, Erik, with anyone else you could be throwing away the first chance you've ever gotten!"

Adele's words stung bitterly, but he had to ask.

"'With anyone else'?"

"Heaven knows I'd storm off in a huff after something like this, but Christine is different, you ought to know that. She's thinking only of you – she asked me if she had done something to upset you."

"Never," Erik said hoarsely.

"Well, then I suggest you show her that. I didn't think someone as intelligent as you could be such a fool, Erik."

Erik winced visibly, then turned and grinned at her.

"If words could kill, Adele…"

"This is not the time for your infamous sarcasm, _Monsieur le Fântome_. Go talk to her, as soon as you can. She wants to see you again."

And with that, Adele turned and left.

* * *

Erik watched Christine in silence through the mirror. She was getting ready for the performance, although he could tell her heart wasn't in it. There was none of her usual nerves or excitement in her expression – only an almost sad, faraway look. 

He ought to say something to her… but not just yet. He'd been an idiot once; he didn't want to make a greater fool of himself.

And so he waited. Just before she left to take the stage, Christine turned and looked straight at him, although she couldn't see him, couldn't possibly know he was there.

"Erik… I hope you can hear me tonight," she whispered, and left it at that.

After a moment of staring at the closed door, Erik raced to Box Five, which was the one part of his Phantom guise that he kept up, as he continued to watch nearly every performance. He knew from her first note why she had hoped he'd be there – she gave him her soul in every word she sang.

It took a very great effort to keep him from hitting himself very hard across the head. _How could he have been so stupid?!_

Later, Christine had just finished putting her things away and was reaching for her cloak, intending to head home, when a very familiar voice floated across the room.

"_Brava, mon ange_," Erik's voice said from behind the mirror.

Christine's whole face lit up at the sound.

"Erik!" she cried, running to the mirror just as Erik opened it.

He did not step into the room, however. For a long moment, the two of them simply stared at each other, both lost for words.

"Erik, I'm so glad to see you," she finally said, trying to sound as casual as possible. "I was really getting worried… I was so afraid that something might have happened to you…"

"I… I'm so sorry, Christine, I should never… I should never have disappeared like that. I just… I just don't want anything to happen to _you_ because of me. I… curse it, but when I forced myself to do this, I had plenty of reasons… but none of them make any sense now. I… I love you, Christine; I don't want anyone to hurt you… especially me."

Christine nodded, resisting the urge to fling her arms around his neck.

"It's all right, Erik… just promise me you'll never scare me like that again," she whispered.

"I promise, Christine… I'm sorry," he replied, touching her cheek gently.

It couldn't be helped anymore; Christine rushed forward and hugged Erik tightly to her, closing her eyes and burying her face in his shoulder. Erik returned her embrace, feeling entirely unworthy of her, more so than ever.

But that didn't matter to Christine – she knew he was, and that was all that mattered.

* * *

A/N: Well, what do you think? How am I doing? Please let me know - your comments are always appreciated! Thanks for reading! --Kyrie 


	29. Business as Usual

A/N: (sings) _Free! Yes, we are free! Don't let midterms enslave us! See how we can be free from the chains they gave us! _

Yeah, I've got "Urinetown" and end-of-exam joy on my mind. You can probably tell from the slight jerkiness of those lines that I rewrote them...

Anyway, here I am! Tis Friday! And so you get your customary Friday chapter. Thanks very much to The Phangirl, phantomphorever, phantom-jedi1, mildetryth, Kinetic Asparagus, Luckii.Jinx, draegon-fire, mikabronxgirl, HDKingsbury, ladyAlyafaelyn, Lucia Sasaki, and Marienna for their reviews!

Oh, and by the way, I added another section to the last chapter (thanks for the suggestion, phantom-jedi!) if you'd like to go back and check. This chapter was a bit of Meg - she needed to be more prominent, so here she is again. Someone also mentioned that Meg and Carlos seem closer than Meg and Christine... this chapter was my attempt to rectify that. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 29: Business as Usual 

_7th January 1882_

Christine could not help but stare at Reyer for a moment before taking the new libretto he held out to her. Finally, she took it, looking at the writing over the title, _Rigoletto_, in surprise. It read: _Christine Daaé; Gilda_.

They'd given her the lead without even a second thought!

"I take it that this means that Signora Giudicelli will not be returning?" she asked cautiously.

Reyer looked instantly flustered at the mention of the temperamental diva.

"We have not heard anything from her that suggested otherwise… and I would have tried to secure this part for a _coloratura_ even if she had been with us still, rather than a _spinto_ like Signora Giudicelli."

Christine choked back a laugh, content to simply smile and thank the maestro before turning away to look over her script.

_Roméo et Juliette _would end next week, and Lefévre had just announced that the next performance would be Verdi's _Rigoletto_. Christine began to flick through her libretto and the pages fell open to Gilda's aria, _Caro nome_. She smiled as she looked at the innumerable grace notes – the song was like dancing a _petite allegro_, for the voice. Wouldn't Erik be pleased! She couldn't wait to tell him.

Before she could, however, Meg came running up to her.

"Disregarding your pointe shoes again, Meg?" Christine asked jokingly.

Meg groaned and leaned heavily against Christine's shoulder, grinning when her friend tottered backwards, just as she had intended. They both laughed; it was then that Meg noticed the libretto that Christine was holding.

"The new script? Did they give you a part, Christine? Oh, I hope they did – after the last performance, they'd better!"

"Oh… I have a small part," Christine replied nonchalantly, although she turned away slightly to make it seem as though she was upset. In reality, she was concealing a mischievous smile.

"Only a small part? That's awfully rude of them! What part? Do you even have a name, or are you back to 'civilian number five'?"

"I… don't have much of a name, really."

"'Not much of a name'? All right, Christine, what are you playing at? Let me see…"

It didn't take long for Meg to grab the libretto from Christine, and she gave a shriek when she saw what was written on the top.

"Gilda! Lefévre and Reyer assign you the _lead_, and yet you're running circles around your best friend!" Meg cried in mock anger, shoving the libretto back at Christine and crossing her arms, pretending to be put-out.

The ruse didn't last long. It wasn't long until they were both laughing hysterically. Meg recovered enough to think to congratulate her friend and gave Christine a hug.

"Congratulations, Christine! This is so wonderful!"

"Thank you, Meg…" she paused for a second, contemplating, before continuing. "I can't wait to tell Erik about this!"

Meg raised an eyebrow at her friend's willingness to bring up her masked teacher, but recognized an olive branch when she saw one and was thrilled that Christine finally felt she could trust her about him.

"I'm sure he'll be very pleased," she said with a smile, giving Christine another hug.

Suddenly, Meg couldn't help but ask.

"He was the one who kissed you after the masquerade, wasn't he?" she whispered.

Christine turned bright red, but she smiled and nodded. Meg laughed, only causing Christine's blush to deepen.

"Well, then, I won't keep you from giving him the news. Go on!" Meg pretended to shoo Christine away.

"He'll already know, Meg. The Ghost might not show himself anymore, but he's still there," Christine replied with a laugh, but she allowed Meg to chase her off.

Just as she had expected, Erik was waiting for her in her dressing room. Still feeling lighthearted after her conversation with Meg, she smiled widely up at him and turned her libretto so that he could clearly see the name scrawled on the top.

Erik's smile instantly matched hers. He had overheard Lefévre and Reyer discussing giving Christine the lead in this new production, but he had not heard anything definite, and Lefévre had suggested that they beg Carlotta to return quite a few times. He was beyond thrilled that she had actually been given the part. In two quick steps he had crossed from the back of her dressing room to where she stood and enveloped her in his arms, lifting her up off the ground and spinning her in tight circles the way he had after the first performance of _Roméo et Juliette_. When he stopped, he held her close against his chest for a momentto allow them both to get their bearings, then took a step back so that he could see her face.

She was beaming at him, her eyes alight with happiness, her hands resting gently on his shoulders.

"I can't believe they have really given me the lead!" she said joyfully.

"Nonsense; you deserve this more than anyone else in this company. You have worked so hard, and it has truly paid off. I'm so proud of you," he added, softening his voice to almost a whisper and lifting a hand to caress her cheek.

Christine met his gaze as he did, and she read the expression in his dark eyes quite clearly. Smiling, she hopefully leaned in a little closer… and Erik bent his head down and kissed her.

When Christine finally pulled away, it was only because she had to catch her breath. She let her head fall onto his shoulder, her eyes still closed, still holding him tightly; she was convinced that if they hadn't been supporting each other, she, at least, would have collapsed. As she fought to breathe properly, Christine listened to Erik's heartbeat race beneath her ear.

"You're not going to run off this time, are you?" she asked quietly.

"No, Christine, I won't," he replied, just as breathless as she was. "I will never leave you."

Christine turned her head to look up at him and smiled softly. Erik couldn't help himself: he kissed her again.

* * *

_16th January 1882_

"Excellent, Mademoiselle Daaé, that was excellent! Could you take it once more from '_fin l'ultimo sospir_,' and then you may rest for a few minutes while I work with the Duke."

"Of course, Monsieur Reyer," Christine replied with a nod, glad that he hadn't told her to start three measures earlier and begin with a G sharp.

She sang through the end of the aria, her voice easily gliding over the E flat near the end. All the same, she was glad for the break Reyer had allowed her – she could now go find herself a glass of water. When she returned to the stage a few minutes later, intending to watch the others until she was needed again, she saw Raoul walk towards her.

"Raoul, what a pleasant surprise! What are you doing here?" Christine asked when he stopped in front of her at the edge of the wings.

"Monsieur Lefévre had something he wanted to discuss, but I've arrived early and thought I would watch a bit of the rehearsal. I just caught your aria, Christine – it was marvelous. It seems as though you've replaced Signora Giudicelli as the prima donna; well done!"

"Thank you, Raoul," she replied, smiling. "I've had so little chance to talk to you… how have you been? How is Philippe?"

"My brother is well, thank you," Raoul said with a laugh. "Do you remember that afternoon when I rescued your scarf – I don't think Philippe will ever let me forget the telling-off I got for that."

"Of course I remember! I thought that you were either the single bravest or the single most idiotic person I'd ever met – chasing my scarf into the ocean when you'd only known me for a few days!"

As Reyer did not call Christine back to rehearsal, they were able to talk for quite some time. Carlos and Meg, rehearsing their steps at the back of the stage, noticed the two of them chatting.

"Why is the Vicomte de Chagny talking to Christine?" Carlos asked, sounding almost suspicious.

"He's allowed to talk to her. They were friends when they were children, I think," Meg replied rather distractedly; she was paying far more attention to holding her _penché_ than Carlos' curiosity.

"Good. Maybe he'll take her mind off the Phantom."

"What?" Meg said sharply, straightening quickly to stare at Carlos. "What does that mean?"

"I'd rather see Christine with a viscount than the Opera Ghost – wouldn't you?"

"Since when have you started playing matchmaker?" Meg scoffed, frowning. "And why are you so concerned about Erik?"

"I don't trust him, Meg, not at all. How could _you_, after what happened at the masquerade?"

"Carlos, for God's sake, that wasn't him!"

"So you believe in his innocence all of a sudden?"

"I believe he deserves a chance! You haven't seen the two of them together, Carlos, they think as one! You haven't seen the way Christine's face lights up when she talks about him…"

"So she is talking about him now?"

"A bit, yes. And if you go on like this, she won't ever trust you with this! Carlos, please, just try and understand…"

"Why can't she trust us, Meg? We've known her far longer than this Ghost-"

"Erik," Meg insisted.

"… and yet she won't tell us anything about him? What's she hiding? If he was a perfectly trustworthy man, she could have told us about him!"

"Yes, and next time you meet someone who's supposed to be some sort of supernatural being, I'll expect you to tell me every little detail straight off!"

Carlos fell silent. He knew Meg has a point, but then, so did he. He knew that there was some sense to what he said, and he clung doggedly to that. The Christine he knew contrasted so violently with what he did know of the Opera Ghost – and with the Opera a place of extremely volatile emotions, who knew what the next five minutes might bring?

Erik watched them argue through a small slit in the curtains behind them. The little Giry girl took after her mother in many ways – she certainly possessed Adele's fiery demeanor. And she thought he deserved a chance… that meant more to him than he would ever be able to explain, he knew it. But the boy still couldn't trust him… well, that was understandable.

His eyes shifted to Christine and the young Vicomte. _Just an old friend_… he reminded himself, _that's all_. But he couldn't help wishing that it was him Christine could talk so freely to during rehearsal, wishing that she was back in his arms…

"Mademoiselle Daaé, could you rejoin us, please?" Reyer called, rather tersely; he'd had far less luck with Emory as the Duke and Piangi as Rigoletto than he had had with Christine.

"Coming, monsieur, I'm sorry!" Christine replied. "I have to return to rehearsal, Raoul – it was so nice to see you again."

"Have a good practice – I'm _late_ to Lefévre now. _Au revoir, mon amie_," Raoul said before turning and walking off the stage in long strides.

Erik turned his attention back to the rehearsal, knowing that Raoul was no threat, that Christine was still his, when she began to sing.

* * *

A/N: And yes, Raoul begins to make his reappearance as well. He's important... but in a good way, I assure you!

More ballet terms! _Penché_: A tilting of the body to achieve an exteme picture. An example is when the dancer is in an arabesque at 90 degrees. She then pushes her working leg (the one in the air) upward and over, pushing the body down towards the supporting leg (the one she's standing on) to achieve a much greater angle between legs, often resulting in a 180-degree split.

And more opera terms! _Rigoletto_: composed by Giuseppe Verdi, first performed in 1851. It is based on Victor Hugo's play _Le roi s'amuse_, and is now the ninth most-performed opera in North America. Gilda is the female lead, the hunchback jester Rigoletto's daughter. _Caro nome_ is her big aria, and it is _immensely _difficult to sing. There are several fast runs and more sections of eight (or was it sixteenth...?) notes than I can count... oh, and an Eb at the end. But it's very pretty, very sweet, and _very _Christine-like.

Let's see... have I got anything else to say...? Oh! I just posted a one-chapter story on FictionPress, under the pen name Emma.Q.Wilkinson. If you've got a moment this weekend, stroll on over to FictionPress and check it out!

As always, please tell me what you think! Your feedback is always so wonderful. Thanks for reading! --Kyrie


	30. Illimitable Dominion

A/N: --shudders-- Oh, but how I hate having to perform my song as a monologue... it's just so awful...

In any case, it's time for the weekly update!!! I have quite a bit of writing to do this weekend, it seems - my extra chapters (in case of writer's block) have dwindled to one... whoops. Right. Thanks to mikabronxgirl, phantom-jedi1, Terry - Crazy Italian, Kathryn Glover, mildetryth, draegon-fire, The Phangirl, ladyAlyafaelyn, HDKingsbury, Lucia Sasaki, moonservant, Kinetic Asparagus, and Luckii.Jinx for their reviews! Yay, reviews!

Hope you like this next chapter!

* * *

Chapter 30: Illimitable Dominion 

_17th January 1882_

Carlos whistled as he walked aimlessly through a remote part of the Opera. In truth, he wasn't wandering entirely without aim – he was hoping he would run into the Ghost. There were a few things he wanted to say to him.

After nearly forty-five minutes (or at least, so it seemed) he gave up. Still whistling, he passed the _Fontaine Sous la Petite Rotonde_; the area around the fountain was cast with flickering shadows, the soft trickle of the water sounded soothing. He'd been slightly tense all evening, both hoping that he would stumble across the Ghost and that the Phantom would be on the opposite end of the theater from him.

"Could you kindly stop that whistling? I do not mean to sound rude, Monsieur Sanchez, but you are _quite_ tone deaf."

Carlos jumped, the hair on his neck standing on end as he landed, and looked around for the voice from nowhere. Even though he couldn't see anyone there, it was a voice he would recognize anywhere. How many times had he heard it floating down through the theater… and, more recently, behind the closed door of Christine's dressing room?

"H-hello, _Monsieur le Fântome_," Carlos replied, trying to sound as calm as he could when he was still trying to recover from nearly landing with his foot in the fountain. "What a pleasant surprise."

"You needn't uphold pleasantries, monsieur; I know you've been looking for me all evening. So, now you have found me. I'm listening," Erik said gently. He didn't want to scare the boy any more than he already had, and talking to a disembodied voice was something that he thought most people would find disconcerting.

"If you knew I was looking for you and you actually wanted me to find you, then why didn't I find you sooner?" Carlos asked suspiciously.

"I doubted that you wanted to be caught talking to the Opera Ghost by one of the other actors. Simply one of the tedious aspects of playing a phantom."

Carlos frowned; what was he implying?

"So… does that mean you intend to _stop_ being the Opera Ghost?"

The man laughed somewhere nearby. Carlos tried to search the shadows around him for any sign of a human standing there, but to no avail.

"Essentially, I already have. Most at this Opera have not heard a word from me for at least a month, perhaps more. Time is not something I'm accustomed to keeping track of," Erik replied.

"So then why have you allowed me to find you? And why are you still hiding?" Carlos snapped, the Phantom's roundabout answers beginning to irk him. Or was it perhaps that they were so completely straightforward that it seemed as though he was leaving something out?

"You've seen me enough, monsieur," he said stiffly, suddenly very aware of his mask and not wanting yet another person to see him.

Carlos couldn't help it; he lost his temper. Erik's detached, calm tone, his refusal to show himself… seemingly, everything that had happened since he'd come across the Phantom had simply added kindling to the resentment he'd been harboring ever since he'd seen the Phantom standing by when Christine had nearly been killed.

"I know why you're here – you want me to trust you. Well, _Ghost_, I don't trust anything I can't see, especially when it's a murderous, scheming liar who's tricked my best friend into trusting him!"

Erik bit back any replies; he knew the retorts he could come up with wouldn't do him any good. In spite of himself, he had to admit that the boy's insults stung. Truthfully, he didn't know quite what to say.

"Can't handle someone telling you the truth, can you, _monsieur_?" Carlos growled when the Phantom remained silent.

"The truth. You want the truth, boy? I did trick Christine at first – but I have told her the truth of who I am and she has forgiven me. It is a pity that you cannot trust what you cannot see; sight can be deceptive."

And before either of them said anything they would truly regret, Erik vanished into the shadows, leaving Carlos alone with his thoughts.

* * *

_18th January 1882_

Christine choked back a laugh as she heard Reyer fight to keep his temper under control as he was working with Emory behind her. Poor Emory was having trouble with the necessary cynicism in his aria, _La donna è mobile_, and both he and the maestro were at their wits' end. Christine sat at the back of the stage, studying her libretto with a group of other women, both chorus members and principals. Meg had joined them as well, explaining that her mother hadn't needed her at the moment, so she thought she might as well come and pester the singers.

"Christine?" Hilaire Gagne, the contralto who played Maddalena, asked suddenly, leaning over to Christine and pointing out a line in her script. "Have you any idea what this means?"

Obligingly, Christine looked the line over, but it didn't make any sense to her. She had been with the Opera company long enough to have picked up some Italian, but most of it was still quite foreign to her.

"I haven't a clue, Hilaire, I'm sorry," she replied, and the other woman straightened up with a sigh.

"I suppose I'll have to brave Reyer then," she said exasperatedly. Everyone knew how much Reyer hated to be asked the meaning of lines – it was a waste of his rehearsal time, and he expected them to somehow know the meaning of everything they sang, whether it was in French or not.

"Wait, don't bother – I'll ask my teacher if you'd like. He's been to Italy, and he's quite probably fluent in four or five languages," Christine said just as Hilaire was getting to her feet. If Erik was listening, he definitely wouldn't like her bringing him into the conversation, but it was high time she started mentioning him in as normal a fashion as possible, before anyone jumped to the conclusion that she was being taught by the Opera Ghost.

"Does he? I'd owe you a lot if you could ask him for me," Hilaire replied, sitting down again. "I'd heard you had a private teacher, Christine; isn't that expensive?"

"No, my teacher's an old friend of the family," Christine replied with a laugh as she banked on her father's tales of the Angel of Music once again.

Another girl, with whom Christine had often talked when she was in the chorus, suddenly piped up.

"Hasn't he got a name, Christine?" she asked curiously.

"Of course he does," Christine said, bluffing for as long as she could. She had no idea what Erik's last name was! "His name's Erik. I don't actually know his last name – I've never used it."

Luckily, her story of the old family friend seemed to cover her lapse in improvisation – and also prevented her from giving a wrong false name now and then the real one later by mistake after she asked Erik.

Meg got to her feet, suddenly realizing that she had stayed far longer than she had meant to, and grinned at Christine as she turned to leave. She was so glad that her friend had finally brought Erik into the light, and in a perfectly mundane light. Something told her that that would do them both a lot of good. As she was stepping out of the group of girls sitting on the stage to hurry back to the ballet rehearsal, she looked up, wondering if Erik was watching them from the flies right then…

… and screamed.

The others in the group looked up and scrambled backwards, some of them echoing Meg's cry as something silver slammed into the floorboards, catching on to the hem of one of the chorus girls' dresses. A moment of stunned silence followed, immediately succeeded by further chaos, as the long, sharp knife quivered back and forth, its point buried in the stage floor.

Christine hurried over to the girl whose dress had been snagged, the same one who had asked Erik's name, and helped the shocked girl to free herself.

"Christine… Christine…!" she said, growing hysteric with fear. It was quite understandable – if she hadn't moved, she might have been killed.

"Shhh, it's all right, Amelie, you're all right…" Christine soothed, even though she was just as shaken, even though she knew she had only to wait before…

"The Phantom! The Phantom's tried to kill us!"

Complete and utter pandemonium broke out after that. Reyer recognized that it was pointless to try and hold rehearsal for any longer, and dismissed the cast. Emory and a few other men raced up into the flies to hunt down the Phantom, or at least look as though they were doing something.

_All they'll find is Buquet, and he's obviously_ not_ the Phantom, of course_, Christine thought bitterly. She knew that the slimy stagehand was behind this, and knew of no way to prove it, or of why Buquet had taken to impersonating the Ghost. What was there to be gained from it? She and Erik needed to find his reasons for doing it – and something told her they needed to do it quickly.

He was waiting for her in her dressing room when she returned a short while later, pacing and looking worried. The moment she closed the door behind her, he swept her into his arms and held her close.

"You're all right… I was so afraid that knife might have hit you… when I get my hands on that stagehand…" Erik's anger washed away when Christine returned his embrace.

"I'm fine, Erik," Christine replied, sounding tired all of a sudden. "Erik? Might I ask what your last name actually is?"

Erik smiled and kissed the top of her head. He had heard that conversation and, after his initial annoyance, thought her idea rather clever. She could refer to him normally now, if she needed to.

"Renoir," he said softly.

"Well, Monsieur Renoir, have you any theories as to why Buquet would want to imitate the Phantom all of a sudden?" Christine asked with a mock-formal tone of voice.

Erik laughed, but the seriousness of her question caused it to be short-lived laughter.

"I haven't the slightest idea," he admitted.

The two of them lapsed into silence for a long moment, thinking hard. A few thoughts crossed their minds, but each was so absurd in nature that it was dismissed quickly. Christine, however, suddenly thought of something that her heart skip a beat.

"Erik… you haven't really been the Phantom much for quite a while now… did you think that perhaps… perhaps Buquet might be doing this to… make it look like there still is a Ghost… and that he's an entirely… _evil_ one?"

Erik's eyes widened in the horror of her suggestion, and when he looked down at her, he saw his shock and fear at the suggestion mirrored in her expression.

"Christine, I must say that I truly hope you're wrong," he replied quietly, staring off into the middle distance as Christine buried her head in his shoulder.

* * *

A/N: All right, so how was that? Please let me know - I thought it a bit odd when I first wrote it, I'm still not so sure about it... 

Anyway, a quick note: _Fontaine Sous la Petite Rotonde _(The fountain under the little rotunda) is a place in the Palais Garnier. It is one of the pictures that the Wikipedia article on the Paris Opera has, and I thought it had a sort of eerie beauty to it. It is really the perfect setting to meet a ghost.

_La donna è mobile - _The Duke's aria in _Rigoletto_; it means "A woman is fickle." Hmph, I say to that.

As I was searching the Internet (rather frantically) for French surnames, I suddenly thought of Renoir, said "oh! That sounds French!" and immediately typed it into that brilliant site, Wikipedia. Turns out that there are six Renoirs listed, five of them artists of some kind and one a professor. It seemed fitting for Erik.

Oh, and the chapter title comes from Edgar Allen Poes "Masque of the Red Death": _And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all. _

As always, feedback is greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading! --Kyrie


	31. A Letter from OG

A/N: Hello again! Happy Friday! Thanks very much to Luckii.Jinx, ladyAlyafaelyn, phantom-jedi1, pony210, mikabronxgirl, Anges Radieux, Mini Nicka, mildetryth, Kathryn Glover, LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath, I'm stalking you, Kinetic Asparagus, draegon-fire, Lucia Sasaki, The Phangirl, and HDKingsbury for their reviews! Yaaaaaaaaay, reviews!

I do plan on going back and cleaning up a few things in the last chapter, but I've been so busy writing the next few chapters (yay, climaxes!) that I haven't had the time... I'll let you know when I do, though.

And, on that note, enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 31: A Letter from O.G. 

_18th January 1882_

Buquet laughed as he watched the chorus girls scream and rehearsal grind to a halt. The pandemonium on the stage was quite hysterical, and he had to keep himself from laughing too loudly, as he knew how little it would sound like the Phantom's laughter. He was beginning to understand why the Ghost did what he did, however – it was fun!

Quickly, he climbed down a little closer to the stage to meet the actors and other stagehands hurrying up to look for the one behind the knife incident.

"I think I saw something – he's gone that way! Damn this leg, I couldn't move fast enough to follow 'im…" Buquet said, pointing in the opposite direction with one hand while holding tightly to a rope with the other.

It worked – immediately, all the men dashed off in the direction he had indicated. He chuckled, thinking that this was far too easy.

This would set the ball rolling nicely. He knew that the Phantom was not generally this violent – and it lost him his knife – but then again, no one knew just what to expect from the resident ghost, or exactly how far he was capable of going. Things had been far too quiet lately; it was time to shake them up a bit, and thrust this Erik into an entirely bitter spotlight. That would show the Phantom not to mess with him!

He climbed slowly down from the flies, careful to play up his limp as he did so, and started towards the door. As long as rehearsal was cancelled, he might as well take advantage of it. While he was crossing the stage, however, one of the actresses caught his eye. Christine Daaé.

She was still trying to console the girl whose skirt had been caught by his knife when she looked up, her eyes meeting his by chance. She looked away quickly, back to the chorus girl, but he saw her brows knit together in anger even though she tried to hide her face behind her curls.

Buquet echoed her frown as he continued out of the theater. It had taken only that one glance to know that she understood exactly what was going on, and when he remembered how vehemently she had defended her Erik before now, he realized that the Daaé girl could prove problematic. He would have to do something about that. Surely there was some way to convince her that he was right… he'd have to think about that. It would take a great deal of convincing… but then, there was no one alive so firm in their ways that they could not be seduced.

She was also mind-bogglingly pretty; that was something he could make use of, once the Ghost was gone.

He grinned as he allowed delightfully wicked thoughts to race through his mind. Oh, but this was going to be _fun_!

* * *

_23rd January 1882_

Christine crossed the room to sit next to Erik on the piano bench; when she leaned over to look at what he was writing, she unintentionally pressed herself against his side, but she made no move to correct it.

"Erik, do you really think this will work?" she asked, looking askance at the letter.

"Have you got a better idea?" he replied, turning to look at her curiously.

"Not at the moment, no, but…" Christine trailed off. Even if it didn't work, they were doing something…

Erik returned to his letter. In truth, he wasn't convinced that it was a good idea either, but it was the best chance they had.

"There," he said a minute later, "finished. What do you think?"

He handed Christine the letter, and she hastily read through it.

_Monsieur Lefévre, _

_It has come to my attention that certain incidents have been occurring of late. You may have noticed that – up until quite recently – I have been very quiet. I intend to remain that way. However, these last few weeks seem to indicate otherwise, do they not?_

_I have a very simple answer to that – I have not been involved in those events. Your Opera House has suddenly sprouted a second ghost, and this one does not possess the good intentions that I do. One Joseph Buquet has taken an extreme dislike to me, and I believe he wishes to frame me for his actions. _

_I hope that this will be able to shed some light on the subject, and I remain, monsieur, your obedient servant._

_O.G._

Christine looked up from the letter to Erik, still looking skeptical.

"I know this is our best chance, Erik, but… I can't help feeling that nothing will come of this. It might even make everything worse."

"Sitting back and doing nothing will as well," Erik replied with a sigh, getting to his feet, taking the letter back as he did so.

He neatly folded the creamy paper and slid it into one of his infamous black-bordered envelopes, sealing it carefully.

"I'm going to go leave this in Lefévre's office; he'll find it in the morning."

"Can I come with you?" Christine asked, getting to her feet.

"I'll be right back, my dear," Erik replied with a smile, and, with that as his answer, he was gone.

Christine nodded as she sat back down, almost as though he was still there and could see her understand. He had always tried to keep the Ghost at arm's length, kept that part of him away from her as much as he could. It was as though he was still afraid of scaring her away…

Well, now what? Erik wouldn't be back for another twenty minutes, at least – the climb up to ground level took quite a while – and his house was eerily silent without him. She laughed at the irony of a soundless music room and began to hunt through the piles of scattered music on the floor for a complete song. After reading through it once, she began to plunk out the melody on the piano; she was rather pleased that she could follow along so well, although if there was any large jump she would have to count up from middle C to find the right key.

Suddenly, she turned a page and saw that the key changed; now, there were five flats to contend with. Christine comprehended just how much more difficult it was to play an instrument than to sing as she tried to follow along on the black keys, but gave up out of frustration in a few minutes and played the first page over again.

By the time Erik returned, she had almost given up entirely.

"I don't know how you do it, Erik," she said with a laugh as he winced at a blatantly wrong note. Scooting over on the piano bench so that he could sit down as well, she tried to puzzle out the phrase again. "Every time I get it right, I try it again and end up hitting all the wrong notes."

Erik sat beside her and poised his hands over the keyboard.

"Watch," he said softly, and began.

The melody Christine had been attempting suddenly came to life under Erik's deft fingers, along with a new harmony that she had not even thought of trying.

"I still don't know how you manage it," she said softly when the song ended.

Erik laughed and, taking advantage of the situation, wrapped his arm around her waist. Christine sighed, resting her head gently against his shoulder.

"Did you leave the letter for Monsieur Lefévre?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Did anyone see you?"

"Of course not!" Erik replied, laughing again.

Christine laughed as well, realizing she needn't have asked.

"It's so quiet here without you, Erik… It's no wonder you have so many instruments, I don't know how you could stand the silence," she mused, her eyes closed.

She felt Erik's fingers lightly touch her chin and she opened her eyes again as he gently turned her head to look at him.

"Well, it's a good thing I have you, then, isn't it?" he said, his dark eyes flashing with laughter.

The look in his eyes, his feather-light touch on her face, sent shivers down her spine. Her breath caught in her throat; Christine found herself hoping that he would kiss her… and was not disappointed.

* * *

_24th January 1882_

"Yes, of course, Monsieur le Vicomte, come right in, have a seat… _not another one!_"

Lefévre blanched completely when he spotted the letter on his desk. If he had not recognized the black border instantly, it would simply have been another letter to answer later… but what could the Ghost possibly want from him now?

"If you'll just… excuse me for a moment…" he said to Raoul, rather nervously.

Raoul nodded, curious. He had never seen one of the Phantom's infamous notes, and he was intensely interested in what it said. He watched silently as Lefévre read through the note; the poor man seemed close to fainting!

"Ah, so… so now he's accusing my stage hand!" the manager cried, trying to cover up his complete terror of the Phantom with anger.

"If I may…?" Raoul asked courteously, extending his hand and silently asking for the letter.

Lefévre did not object, and Raoul read through the note for himself. He was quite shocked at what he found there; this was surely not the work of a madman! This Phantom fellow seemed quite ingenious, in fact, but then… why take on the guise of a ghost?

"Perhaps there is some truth to what he says?" Raoul said, posing the statement as a question, unsure of how well it would go over with the Opera's nervous manager.

"Truth! My good man, do you really think…"

"To my knowledge, he's never led you wrong before. What harm is there in investigating his claim?"

Lefévre spluttered arguments for several minutes before giving in. The Vicomte was right, after all – what harm was there?

Erik resisted the urge to chuckle as he watched the two of them discuss his letter from the small grate behind Lefévre's desk. At least they were going to listen to him. That was most definitely worth sneaking into the passage to hear.

He left them to argue; he wanted to watch the rehearsal. Hopefully, Christine would be given a break at some point where he could talk to her and tell her what he'd heard, but then, he could tell her afterwards if need be. What Erik really wanted to do at the rehearsal was keep an eye on Buquet, make sure he didn't try anything with Christine again.

Reyer gave the entire cast a ten-minute break after Erik had been watching the rehearsal for an hour. _The wings, Christine, go into the wings_, Erik thought, and, as though she could hear him, she complied. Aimlessly, Christine wandered into the wings, as she wanted a chance to speak with Erik just as much as he did. With a smile, Erik raced down from his post in the flies, landing, catlike and silent, just behind her, his cloak swirling around him as he straightened and easily sidestepped her to stand in front of her. He could not keep from smiling at the look of pleased surprise on her face.

"Hello, Erik," she said, grinning.

"Rehearsal seems to be going well this afternoon," Erik noted.

Christine nodded, clearly waiting for Erik to tell her why he had come looking for her in the middle of rehearsal… not that she minded.

"I overheard Lefévre talking to de Chagny; he got my note, and the Vicomte seems to have persuaded him to act on it."  
"Really? That's wonderful! Perhaps this will work after all."

"Buquet still could escape them for a while. Don't give him the chance to hurt you, Christine; don't let him anywhere near you."

"I'm far more worried about what he could do to you…" Christine began, her voice low, but Erik cut her off.

"There's nothing to worry about where I'm concerned, but if he touches you one more time, I swear, he will sincerely regret it. He's targeted you before, Christine…" he said, at first harshly, but then lowering his voice to a gentle whisper as he reached out and touched his hand to her face.

Christine closed her eyes, covering his hand with her own and leaning in to his caress; she hardly noticed him drawing her into his arms until she was already there.

"I won't let him harm you, Christine, I won't let anything harm you," he whispered in her ear, sounding at once loving and forceful.

Finally, Christine realized that she had to return to the stage and reluctantly disentangled herself from Erik's embrace. Before she left the wings, however, she turned back to look at him.

"And what do they plan to do?" she asked.

"We shall just have to wait and see, _mon ange_," he replied, and with that, he vanished into the darkness once again.

* * *

A/N: I couldn't resist sticking in that bit with Christine and the piano... since that's exactly what I do. Plunking around is fun! 

This chapter is also where I start to quote like there is no tomorrow. Well, not directly quote, per say, but there's loads of lines from other places that I've reworked a tiny bit and slipped in... in this chapter there was definitely one from _Julius Caesar _(Buquet's line:_ there was no one alive so firm in their ways that they could not be seduced. _Cassius says that, or pretty much that); in the next two, I've had some from Phantom itself, _Macbeth_, _West Side Story_, _Les Miserables_... even one from _Urinetown _for goodness' sake! Please forgive me; I can't help it.

Bother, I just realized that there was another note I meant to put in: when Christine is playing the piano and finds the key change, she comes across five flats in the key signature. The key of D flat major has five flats; D flat major is reportedly Andrew Lloyd Webber's favorite key, and "Music of the Night" is written in it. It is also _very _difficult to play on the piano... accursed black keys...

And the reason _West Side Story _has slipped in (next chapter, really...) is because I'm singing _Somewhere _for a regional theater audition tomorrow morning... and I'm actually not nervous. Which is very good!!!

As always, thanks very much for reading, and please let me know how I'm doing! --Kyrie


	32. Stand and Watch it Burn

A/N: --chuckles-- That was awesome. I just came from my voice lesson, and the girl who was going after me asked if I was auditioning for Broadway... that'll make my weekend, that will.

Ahem. Happy Friday, all! And happy snow!!! I'm assuming that's the reason why some of my usual reviewers haven't been by... anyway, thanks very much to ladyAlyafaelyn, phantom-jedi1, Luckii.Jinx, Anges Radieux, I'm stalking you, Kathryn Glover, The Phangirl, HDKingsbury and Lady Wen for their reviews! Thanks also to Nedjmet for finally coming round and reading the first seven chapters in one sitting! Yay!!!

This is a long chapter. I mean a looooooooooooooooong chapter. The next few will be, as they're very actiony and I couldn't break them up at all, really... although I doubt you're complaining. ;)

Oh, and thanks to ladyAlyafaelyn for the chapter title idea. --more wink--

* * *

Chapter 32: Stand and Watch it Burn

_26th January 1882_

Lefévre still had not done anything about Erik's letter, and Christine was beginning to wonder if he was planning to do anything at all. Perhaps Erik's plan wasn't going to work after all…

Her head snapped up when she heard her name called from the edge of the stage. Raoul was standing next to Reyer, looking as though he were trying to persuade him of something. After a moment, Reyer turned resignedly towards her.

"Mademoiselle Daaé, the Vicomte would like a word, if you please," he said tiredly, sounding as though the world would end if he actually allowed her go.

Christine got to her feet, extremely conscious of all the eyes suddenly turned her way, and left the theater with Raoul.

"What on earth is it, Raoul? It is very nice to see you, but if you just wanted a word, couldn't it have waited until after rehearsal?" she asked, trying not to sound too annoyed.

"I am sorry, Christine," he said apologetically, and he meant it, "but the other day Monsieur Lefévre received a letter I believe you would be interested in."

"Oh?" she asked. She could not help but think that he meant Erik's letter… but why in the world would he connect the Ghost to her now?

"Yes. It seems as though we may actually capture the Phantom that – well, at least according to backstage gossip – has been 'haunting' you for quite some time."

"Raoul! Where do you get such ludicrous ideas?" she asked, genuinely laughing. Erik? Haunt her? The thought was absurd.

He grinned sheepishly at her.

"Or at least, if we don't catch the Ghost, we make the mystery greater. According to this letter, the real Phantom has been lying low and the unfortunate incidents that have been occurring lately are the work of Joseph Buquet… he is the flyman, correct?"

"Yes," Christine replied, barely keeping the growl out of her voice.

Raoul, however, didn't pick up on her sudden annoyance.

"You should have seen Lefévre as he read the note; the poor man looked as though the thing might suddenly bite him if he wasn't careful," he said with a laugh.

Christine did not join him; she had seen how terrified the manager was of Erik and wished that he wasn't… there was no reason for him to be. Instead, she turned to look skeptically up at Raoul after a moment.

"You convinced him to do what the letter said to? Why do you believe him?"

"In all honesty, Christine, I'm not sure. Perhaps it was just that… his letter didn't strike me as being the work of a madman… perhaps it was just a whim. After all, the Phantom's advice doesn't seem to have been bad once. This couldn't be different, could it?"

"No… no, I suppose not," Christine replied.

There was a long, awkward pause where neither knew what to say. Finally, Raoul cleared his throat and went on.

"I must be going, Christine; I'm sorry to be keeping you from your rehearsal."

"That's all right, Raoul; thank you for telling me," Christine replied.

As Raoul walked away, she turned to go, but was confronted by someone else instead and stepped into the shadows after him.

"Good morning, Erik," she said, smiling.

"He's been about quite a lot lately," Erik said, trying to sound casual, but Christine did not miss the hint of irritation behind his words.

"He just wanted to tell me about the letter you sent to Lefévre; it seems that the ballet girls haven't quite forgotten about my 'affiliation' with the Opera Ghost."

Erik remained silent, his face stony.

"Oh, Erik, you're being silly. Raoul's only a friend, I promise. He's just concerned about me, the way Meg and Carlos are," she assured him, correctly guessing the reason behind his silence. She then put her hand gently on his face, turning his head so that he was looking at her, and lowered her voice to a whisper. "And I love _you_, remember?" she added with a smile.

Erik returned it, unable to resist. He took a step closer to her – they were mere inches apart – and brushed her curls back from her face with one hand while the other settled on her waist. The last of his self-control broke as Christine slid her arms around his neck; he tilted her head upwards and kissed her.

Christine felt his arms tighten around her, pressing her closer to him, and did nothing to stop it. If anything, she encouraged it. Finally, she pulled away, breathing as though she had just sprinted half a mile, her cheeks flushed. After a moment, she reluctantly took a step back, suddenly feeling cold without him right beside her.

"I really must get back to rehearsal, Erik… I've already been gone for far too long…"

"Of course, _mon ange_," Erik whispered, but still just as unenthusiastic as she was. So, after a moment of taught silence, he bent down and kissed her once more before releasing her.

Christine smiled at him, then turned and began to return to the stage, hoping that Reyer hadn't needed her…

* * *

Carlos couldn't help but curse under his breath as he sprinted towards the stage. _Damn, damn, damn! _He hadn't overslept like this in _ages_, why did he have to sleep in and miss rehearsal only a few days before opening night? Madame Giry was going to kill him, in a very slow and painful way, of that he was sure.

He was very nearly at the stage when he rounded a corner and saw something that was only going to make him later. A little way down a hallway he was passing, mostly hidden in the shadowy corner, was Christine. And she most certainly wasn't alone! Carlos would have known that mysterious black-clad figure anywhere.

He couldn't help but stare; he never thought he would actually see the two of them together, much less… like this. Had all of the rumors – even the more absurd ones – been true then?

The Phantom suddenly turned to go, and Christine was now heading in his direction. It seemed he had been too shocked to actually pay attention to what was going on… and it was too late to wipe the stunned expression from his face…

Christine stopped when she saw Carlos standing there, looking at her almost as though he didn't know who she was. _Oh, dear_…

"Good morning, Carlos. Why aren't you at rehearsal? Or have you overslept again…" she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

"I could ask the same of you," Carlos replied, still shocked.

"It's really quite odd; Raoul wanted a word, so he pulled me out here to talk to me, and I was just going back…"

"That's not what I saw," he interrupted, slightly annoyed.

Christine sighed resignedly. She had been afraid of that.

"And yes, I ran in to Erik on the way back."

"You do know that this is exactly what Meg and I were afraid of when we first learned about your… involvement with him," he said sternly, raising an eyebrow.

"Afraid of what? Oh…" Christine began, but then she remembered some of the nastier bits of gossip that had been floating around a few months ago. "You think he's… he's taking advantage of me, don't you? Erik? He would never…"

"Christine! For goodness' sake, you can't keep skirting around the truth!"

"I'm _not_, Carlos, I am telling you the truth! Erik is a good man, why can't you believe that? Come on, you're late and I've been gone far too long as it is…"

Christine walked past Carlos in the direction of the stage, and he spun around, catching up to her in a few quick strides.

"You're not satisfied, are you?" she said with a sigh. "Carlos, it's not as though he's done anything wrong. Or as though I have. You don't know him, but can't you trust my judgment?"

"If he's such a good man, why haven't you told us anything about him? Why are Meg and I being kept in the dark?"

"I… I know it's odd, Carlos. I know it might not look very good, but… Erik can be… difficult when it comes to other people. He wears that mask for a reason. It's very hard for him to trust anyone else… I've had to think of him, not just me. It's been so hard not to tell you, but…"

"And yet he trusts you?"

"Carlos… he loves me."

Admittedly, he had not been expecting to hear that.

"That's… what he _says_…"

"Please! If you knew him, Carlos, you would know that I do not use that term lightly! I am the first person to ever show him any real compassion… if you could just see the way he looks at me, Carlos, you would know he's not lying. And… and it's not as though the feeling isn't mutual."

They had reached the stage door; Christine had to go back to rehearsal, and Carlos had to continue on to the dance rehearsal behind the stage and hope that Madame Giry wouldn't skin him alive. But Christine had one more thing to say.

"I know that this might be rather… bizarre, but please, Carlos, just… just think about it. I… I want so much for you and Meg to understand."

She smiled at him and then slipped through the door and onto the stage, apologizing profusely to Reyer, and Carlos headed to ballet. There was certainly an awful lot for him to think about… Now that Christine had told him at least a little bit of what was going on, could he be so vehemently against it? Now that he knew the truth, or at least some of it…

He was jerked from his reverie by an extraordinarily angry Madame Giry.

"Monsieur Sanchez! If you don't have a very good reason for being this late to rehearsal, you will severely regret it!"

Carlos grinned sheepishly, spreading his hands wide.

"I was waylaid by the Ghost?" he said, which only stretched the truth a little… well, a lot.

But it did the trick. The entire _corps de ballet_ burst out laughing, even Meg, who knew that there probably was an ounce of accuracy in what he said and that she would have to interrogate him later.

Still, it didn't get him out of doing the hardest, most taxing part of the ballet four times by himself. Ah well.

* * *

_30th January 1882_

Opening night. It was opening night, curtains had been falling like rain for the past three days – one of the dancers had even twisted her ankle rather badly as a result of the last one – and _still _they had not done anything about his letter. What with all the 'spectral' activity in the flies, one would think they would only suspect the flyman more! Erik was tempted to forget that he had ever sent it and take care of Buquet himself… the damned stagehand deserved it, after all.

But what would happen if he crossed that border again? Could he do it? The night he had explained everything to Christine, she had said that he'd changed, and he had; he never wanted to revert back to the monster he had once been.

Well, _something_ had to be done before Buquet had another chance to harm Christine…

"Good morning, _mon ange_," he said when he arrived at the mirror, to give her some warning before he opened the door and stepped through.

Christine got to her feet and smiled at him, although he could tell that she was already beginning to get nervous.

"Relax, my dear, you won't make it through today's rehearsal if you don't," he joked. Christine laughed.

"I know, Erik, I know. I'm always jittery before opening night, I suppose… I never can quite get used to it. I don't think I ever will… and perhaps that's a good thing; if I don't stay on my toes, I won't perform as well."

"Precisely. Although I must assert that you have very little to worry about; you will do marvelously this evening. _Caro nome _could have been written for you."

"You know my voice much better than Verdi ever would, Erik," Christine replied with a laugh; Erik could not help but smile.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the dressing room door.

"Christine? Can I come in?"

"Just… just a moment, Meg…" Christine called over her shoulder, then turned quickly back to Erik. "It's only Meg, Erik, do you…?"

Erik paused for a brief moment – all that the situation allowed him – before shaking his head. There had been something he had meant to ask Christine, something important… but it could wait until after the performance.

"No. I… I'll stay, Christine," he said softly.

Christine's face lit up when he said that, and she gave him a kiss on the cheek before turning to the door, beaming.

Meg wasn't at all surprised to find Erik in the room with Christine, however.

"Good morning, Erik!" she said cheerily.

Admittedly, the use of his name caught him off guard. He had heard the little Giry call him by name before… but Adele and Christine were the only ones to use his name while talking to him in years…

"The same to you, mademoiselle," he replied courteously, smiling.

Christine echoed his smile before turning to her best friend.

"Am I late, Meg?"

"No, not at all… it's just, Carlos told me what happened the other night…" Christine couldn't help but blush, and Erik was wondering what had happened. "I think he believes you now, or at least, more than he did. I thought you'd like to know that."

"Does he?" Christine said with a relieved sigh.

"Might I ask why Monsieur Sanchez has come to this conclusion?" Erik asked, one eyebrow raised curiously.

"Ah, well, he… saw us together in the hallway a few days ago. I'm afraid I had to explain what was going on to him," Christine answered, grinning awkwardly.

"I see. Well, I'm keeping the two of you from rehearsal. I'll see you afterwards, Christine," Erik replied, giving a little half-bow before vanishing so quickly through the mirror that Meg barely saw the door move.

"How… how did he do that?" she asked Christine incredulously.

"Erik is a man of many talents, Meg," Christine replied, laughing.

* * *

A few hours into the rehearsal, Erik found himself watching from the wings. A few of the younger ballet girls began to filter backstage, waiting anxiously for their turn onstage. He couldn't help but grin at their enthusiasm.

The scene changed. Erik was about to climb into the flies in order to get a better view when suddenly a high-pitched squeak sounded from the back of the wings. It was shortly accompanied by the customary _shhh!_-ing, so there really was no reason to think that it was anything more than one of the dancers seeing a mouse, but his curiosity had been aroused.

_Curiosity killed the cat_…

Silently, he slipped between the heavy side-curtains and various set pieces, making his way towards the very back, the place the noise had come from. He heard a muffled groan as he neared the wall and knew that something had gone terribly wrong. Cautiously, he took another few steps forward and very nearly slipped; the floor was wet. With horror, he realized that the liquid was red.

Looking around, he saw a young girl in the white uniform of the _corps de ballet_, sprawled on the ground, a great gash in her side. She was still breathing, but only just… _Move, Erik, move!_ his mind urged him, but he was frozen, rooted to the spot in shock. Buquet. It had to have been him… who else could have done such a thing? But would they believe him this time? Did they think him – the Phantom – capable of such a cold-blooded, heartless deed?

Of course they did.

Finally, he dropped to his knees beside the girl, gently lifting her off the floor. She seemed very young, perhaps only twelve years old… her dark hair covered her forehead in soft little wisps, and she was so pale… dangerously pale.

Quickly, Erik untied his cravat and pressed it to the gash, hoping that it would be enough to stop the bleeding long enough for him to find Adele and get her more legitimate help. His face contorted into a snarl; how _dare_ Buquet injure someone so completely innocent? This girl could die because of that Goddamned stagehand!

He couldn't wait around any longer; it was time he alerted Adele to this, and the sooner he find her, the better. He gently set the girl back on the ground, stood up and turned to leave… nearly walking straight into two other little ballet girls who must have come looking for their friend.

_Damn._

The two little girls' eyes widened with terror, and Erik realized with horror that there was blood on his hands… one of the girls looked past him, must have seen her companion lying still on the ground…

"_Genevieve!_" she shrieked. "_The Phantom's killed Genevieve!_"

Erik could only stare at the two now hysterical ballet girls as the shout alerted the rest of the company to what was going on.

"I didn't… I didn't hurt her… I… I swear…" he stammered, although it was useless. Clearly, this had been just what Buquet wanted…

He could hear the rest of the actors rushing into the wings, and finally his feet were able to move. He bolted.

Onstage, Christine felt her blood turn to ice at the little ballet girl's scream. _God, no_…_ please God no_…_ what has Buquet done now?_ She couldn't get backstage; the commotion was too great. She could tell from the shrieks and shouted orders that something truly dreadful had occurred, and that it would all be linked to Erik…

Suddenly, she saw Buquet climb down from the flies and start limping towards her. The stage was relatively deserted now, but still… there was nowhere for her to escape to.

"What have you done now?" she hissed, furious.

"Me? Why, I've done nothing at all, love," he replied, his customary leer fixed on his face.

"Liar," Christine spat.

"Not going to give up easy, are you? Not going to come to your senses any time soon? Aren't you tired of having to lie all the time, to cover everything up? Why not just tell them – all of them – everything?"

"They would never believe me," she replied cautiously. He knew too much…

"But of course they would! Just let them have all the juicy little details about _Monsieur le Fântome_; they'd lap it up like honey. And then this unpleasantness would all be over; there would be no Phantom of the Opera any longer. The mystery would die."

Christine caught the true meaning of his words instantly.

"So you want me to condemn him to death?"

"If you must put it so bluntly… yes." Another leer.

"Never. Find someone else to play traitor," Christine said, her voice shaking with fury.

"You'll regret that, girl," Buquet snarled.

Their 'conversation' was interrupted by Lefévre sprinting onstage, shouting Buquet's name.

"Buquet! A word with you, if you please."

"Yes, sir?" he replied politely. Christine glared at him; he was so… _slimy!_ The rest of the company began to gather round now that Genevieve had been taken out of the theater.

"Buquet, I have learned from… a reliable source that you are the one behind this recent unpleasantness. Now, if you have been impersonating a ghost of late, I'll have it out of you right now."

"Me? Play the Phantom? With this leg?" Buquet replied indignantly, sounding insulted.

_Curse you, Lefévre, he's bound to deny that!_ Christine thought. _What to do, what to do, what to DO?!_

"Monsieur, who on earth told you such idiotic stories? The Ghost 'imself, I presume." The look on Lefévre's face told him as much, and he continued. "Look, it wasn't me, I can assure you of that. There's better things I can do with my time than run around in a mask and a cape. But I've got an idea as to who might have sent you that letter an' why they're leading you on."

"Oh?" Lefévre said curiously.

Buquet grinned malevolently and, raising one grubby hand, pointed at Christine.

"You've heard all the rumors, I don't doubt," he said, raising his voice so that the entire company could hear him. "Little Miss Daaé, the Phantom's whore. She just wants to cover up for 'im. I'd bet anything she sent you that note to sabotage me and keep you off her lover's trail."

"_What?_" Christine said, shocked.

"You heard me, Christine. Go on, tell 'em. Tell 'em everything about your Phantom fellow."

"Is this true, Mademoiselle?" Lefévre asked incredulously.

"No… no, of course not… I don't know the Opera Ghost…" _I only know Erik_. _Buquet is the Ghost now, the scheming_…

"Come now, girl, own up! Rumors don't spring up out of nowhere!"

That did it. The entire company started shouting for her to confess, to answer for something she had not done. True, she had known about Erik's letter… but it wasn't a cover up! It was the truth! What on earth was she to do?

She could think of nothing to do, nothing to say, that would save either Erik or herself at this point. The injury of that little ballet girl had been the last straw; the company was incensed now, and they were out for blood. _Blood will have blood_…

Finally, she simply covered her face with her hands, the shouts and taunts and threats reaching an unbearable crescendo. A blazing whirlwind of hate and lies shrieked around her, blinding, deafening, painful… and there was _nothing _she could think to do to stop the agony…

"This has to stop! He's tried to kill one of us multiple times now!" someone at the back of the group cried.

"We've got to track down this murderer! He must be found!"

"This madness can't continue a moment longer!"

"Wait! All of you, wait!" Buquet's voice carried over the rest, and after a moment the noise had subsided enough so that they could hear him properly. "Don't go rushing off to find him now! I say wait till after the performance is over. He won't be here now; he'll have bolted to the cellars he's supposedly so fond of. If we wait a few hours, he won't be expecting us, will he? And it gives you time to arm yourselves, doesn't it?"

That was met with enthusiastic cheers. Christine could not believe what was happening, refused to believe it… and yet dared not think it a dream.

All attempts at rehearsal were abandoned; no one would concentrate on the task at hand. Everyone's thoughts were filled with the blood of the Opera Ghost…

And, for Christine, the Paris Opera, once a place of light and beauty and music, suddenly became pure hell. She wanted to run, to find Erik, to warn him, to do _something_… but she was trapped. For the time being, there was nothing she could do but wait and pray that she would be able to find him before the performance began. She forced herself to watch Buquet intently; he was certainly enjoying all the attention this was bringing him. Hatred flared in her for a moment, only to be replaced again by icy panic.

There was no escape, no turning back now… They had all crossed over the bridge and could only stand and watch as it burned behind them…

* * *

A/N: Hmmm... I don't think there's any historical notes in this chapter... and all I can say is MUAHAHAHA!!!! --tee hee--

Oh, and kudos points to anyone who can find my little quotes!

As always, thanks very much for reading and please let me know what you think! --Kyrie


	33. Bear Baiting

A/N: I am _dreadfully _sorry that my update is later than usual this afternoon... I've been at school for nearly twelve hours; we had play practice (two weeks till opening night! Yikes!) when we usually don't have it on Fridays. What a horrible place to leave you off on for any longer, even though it was only a few hours.

Thanks very much to The Phangirl, Luckii.Jinx, phantom-jedi1, Kathryn Glover, I'm stalking you, ladyAlyafaelyn, mikabronxgirl, Marieena, Anges Radieux, draegon-fire, Lucia Sasaki, Lady Wen, mildetryth, and HDKingsbury for their reviews, and Jenny for her email. Yaytastic!!!

That being said, only HD has permission to (however virtually) hurt me at the end of this chapter. She'll know why, if that is the case... --cough--

I'm actually rather proud of this chapter, though. For the first time in my life I've managed to work with a crowd. Enjoy! And remember - don't shoot the authoress.

* * *

Chapter 33: Bear Baiting 

_30th January 1882_

Even the audience noticed that there was something wrong that night. The tension in the grand theater was so palpable that they felt they could reach out and touch it. At frequent and varying points throughout all five acts of the opera, each and every cast member, from ballet girl to principal actor was caught glancing offstage, their faces hardening for a moment whether it was in character or not. All except one.

There were some in attendance who wondered if Christine Daaé was ill; the normally brilliant young soprano's voice seemed to have lost much of its sparkle, and no matter how hard the poor girl tried, a look of pure terror would not leave her eyes. She looked to the shadows in the vacant Box Five on the grand tier just as often as the rest of the cast looked into the wings, and during intermission, those patrons who had picked up some of the opera gossip were soon chattering about ghosts and conspiracies.

They didn't know the half of it.

Christine hadn't been able to find Erik anywhere between rehearsal and the performance, nor could she find him as she searched futilely during the interval. Panic constricted her chest so forcefully that she could barely breathe; she didn't know how she had been able to make it even this far. Never before had she wanted this badly for an opera to end – she had to find Erik, to warn him! But at the same time she wished that one performance of _Rigoletto_ could go on forever… if the performance never ended, they would never chase after Erik. No one would ever get hurt; no one would be… _killed_…

But it was no use. All too soon, she was singing her final lines, and it was not long afterwards that the curtain fell and a sort of half-hearted applause rose from the audience. Knowing that she would not be given any curtain calls, Christine bolted for the stage door, intent on going straight to her dressing room and into the passageways behind the mirror after locking her door.

One patron in particular, however, had noticed how off-color she had been and had come immediately backstage to investigate. Raoul caught Christine by the arm as she attempted to brush past him in her haste.

"Let go of me!" she said angrily, trying to tug her arm free. She didn't have time for this!

Raoul held on adamantly, however.

"Christine? Are you all right? You sounded…"

"Yes, I know, the performance was awful. Just let go of my arm! I can't…"

"What in heaven's name is going on? The entire company was out of sorts tonight. Has something gone wrong?"

"Something has gone _terribly_ wrong, Raoul, and I expect that if you wait here for another few moments you will come face to face with an angry mob of actors and stagehands! A man's life is in danger, Raoul, let me go!"

"_What?_ Wait, say that again…"

"I haven't got _time!_" Christine cried furiously, her wrist still firmly encircled by Raoul's hand. "Curse it, Raoul, let _go _of me, I've got to find Erik, I've got to warn him…!"

"Erik?"

Christine rolled her eyes, hoping that what she was about to say wouldn't add kindling to the fire…

"For heaven's sake, Raoul – the Opera Ghost!"

It worked. In his shock, Raoul let go of Christine's arm. Immediately, she turned away and ran down the hall, ignoring his shouts. She was panting heavily when she finally slammed her dressing room door behind her, fuming at the time she'd lost. Locking the door, she turned around to find that Erik had appeared at the back of the room.

"Erik! You're all right…! But we have to get out of the Opera House _now_… they're coming for you this time, Erik, whatever it is that Buquet's done has them incensed…"

"He tried to murder a little girl and pin the blame on me," Erik snarled slowly, hatred radiating from every syllable. "If she dies, he'll suffer for it, that I assure you."

Christine had never seen him so furious, but she couldn't dwell on that. They had to leave, and quickly, before they were discovered.

"Erik, we have to _leave_, _now_…" she pleaded. "They'll be looking for you now… and… and… they're out for blood…"

"Let them come. I've done nothing wrong," Erik replied, his voice little more than a growl.

"Erik, _please!_ I wish I could make them believe you… but now is not the time! Come back to my flat with me, _anywhere_, just…" His face remained stony. Desperately, Christine grabbed his arm with one hand and forced him to look straight at her with the other. "Please, Erik, please, I couldn't bear it if they found you, if they… Let's just leave this place, leave all of the lies and rumors and hatred behind… there has to be a place for us somewhere…"

Erik said nothing; even though she thought she saw his eyes soften, he didn't respond. Hopeless, Christine allowed her head to fall against his shoulder, her body shuddering with suppressed sobs. Why was he refusing to run? Did he want them to kill him? What could be holding him back…?

Finally, she heard him sigh, felt him stroke her curls comfortingly.

"You're right, Christine… Buquet's not worth the trouble. And something tells me that I wouldn't be able to get you to leave me for a moment…"

"Of course not!" she replied, looking up.

Erik gave her a half-hearted smile, then turned and opened the mirror. The two of them stepped quickly through, only just barely bothering to slam it shut before hurrying as they dared through the dark, cold, damp passageways.

It seemed as though Christine had taken too long, both in her persuasion and in reaching Erik to begin with. The sounds of angry shouts and three dozen pairs of feet were clearly heard ringing through neighboring passages; Buquet must have found the entrance and was now leading the mob straight towards them.

"Hurry!" Christine hissed desperately, praying that only Erik could hear her.

As they rounded a sharp corner, however, she lost her footing on the cold, slippery stones and fell, sprawling across the floor of the tunnel with an involuntary yelp of pain. Slightly dazed, she shook her head vigorously as she tried to push herself to her feet, but her shoes could find no purchase on the slick stonework.

"Are you all right, Christine?" Erik asked worriedly, bending over her and gently helping her to her feet.

"I'm fine," she replied shakily, taking a few cautious steps. "Let's go…"

They turned and began to run once more when they suddenly had to skid to a halt; Christine screamed in earnest this time. It seemed as though nearly all of the stagehands and male performers had come into the underground tunnels in search of Erik. Half of them formed an impenetrable wall in front of them; the rest were scurrying in behind them. They were trapped.

"Look, he's got Christine Daaé! Let her go, you monster!" someone cried, and Christine could almost feel Erik wince beside her.

"They'll let you through, Christine… you know the way to the lake; get to my house and get out…" Erik whispered urgently to her.

"No! I won't leave you, Erik, I won't leave you to face them!" she hissed back.

"Christine, please! I don't care what happens to me; I just want you safe."

"Don't say that, Erik! _I _care; I care what happens to you quite a lot! They won't hurt you if I'm here…"

"Christine…" He turned to face her, reaching a hand out towards her gently…

"_Don't you dare!_" one of the men in the crowd shouted.

Before she knew what was happening, Christine felt strong hands grab her arms and yank her backwards, away from Erik. It was Emory. For the first time, Christine noticed familiar faces in the mob, familiar faces nearly distorted beyond recognition with fury. There was Monsieur duBois, the kind acting manager, there was… _Carlos, oh, not you too, Carlos_… There was poor Raoul, looking slightly confused as to what was happening and why…

"Stop!" she yelled desperately. "Stop, you don't know what you're doing!"

"It's all right, Mam'selle, I've got you safe now. We won't let him harm you."

"No, you don't understand…"

"Shhh, it's really all right now…"

Emory continued his reassuring, but Christine didn't listen, couldn't listen. Buquet was stepping through the crowd to stand by Erik, in the center of the mob, alone and defenseless…

"So, this is how you meet your end, then, _Monsieur le Fântome_," he said icily, his customary leer firmly in place, his limp somehow not as pronounced as usual.

"Perhaps," Erik replied coolly, "Or perhaps how you meet yours."

"Me? Come now, Ghost, all of these men know you to be a murderer. You've been manipulating them for far too long; it's time that was changed."

"No! No, he's not a murderer! Please, don't!" Christine cried, struggling to break free of Emory's grip and return to Erik. If she could reach him, perhaps she could shield him…

Buquet turned and glared icily at Christine when she fell silent. She could only watch in horror as he rounded on Erik once more…

"What sort of lies have you been feeding her, Phantom? What could poison a sweet girl like Christine into becoming an accomplice to a fiend like you?" he said maliciously, twisting even the most innocent words into venomous heresy…

"Don't listen to him!" Christine shouted, her terrified voice carrying easily in the dark passageway. "Don't listen to him, he's lying!"

"Silence, girl! I'll deal with you afterwards, little traitor," Buquet snapped.

As he did so, he made the mistake of turning away from Erik. Furious that Christine had now been threatened, Erik grabbed the front of Buquet's collar so tightly that the shorter man was nearly lifted off the ground.

"If you harm Christine, I _will_ kill you," he hissed, just loud enough so that the others could hear him. He then thrust Buquet away from him so roughly that he staggered into the crowd behind him.

Buquet had the audacity to laugh. He came close to Erik again, leaning in and lowering his voice this time.

"What is she to you? A toy? Well, then I'm sure you won't mind me having a bit of fun with her once you are out of the picture…"

Erik lunged towards Buquet, who stepped backwards, drawing a knife. Christine's desperate protests could barely be heard over the jeering of the crowd.

_This can't be happening, this can't be real_…_ it's all just some horrific nightmare, I'll wake up soon_… she thought, even though she knew it wasn't true. Still, the fight unfolded in an almost surreal fashion, and Christine almost felt that she held her breath through the entire thing. She saw Buquet's knife flash as it swung downwards, missing by a wide margin as Erik leapt back… saw Erik's fist come up and connect with Buquet's jaw, sending the stagehand reeling back, stumbling, nearly falling… As he regained his footing, he lunged again for Erik, who quickly whirled around, whipping the edge of his cloak into Buquet's face. She heard her own voice screaming as, a few minutes later, Buquet's blade caught Erik in the arm, drawing blood… _Erik was unarmed; how was it possible that he would win this?_

But his hard life had taught him many things, and one was that a weapon was not needed for self-defense. He kept mainly out of Buquet's reach, forcing the other man to attack him, to tire himself, waiting. Merely gritting his teeth on the occasion that he did not move away quite fast enough and the stagehand's knife caught him, Erik simply waited for his chance…

Suddenly, Buquet gave it to him. Wildly, almost as though he were putting on a show, he ran at Erik, knife at the ready. At the last second, Erik sidestepped him, grabbing him by the shoulder and tripping him as he shot past. Buquet fell with an audible thud to the ground, and Erik readied himself for retaliation.

Buquet did not get up, however; instead, he lashed out from the ground, taking hold of Erik's ankles and dragging him down to the ground as well. His knife caught in the Phantom's thick black cloak, tearing a long rent in it as Erik rolled away and sprang to his feet. Before the Ghost could fully straighten up and regain his bearings, he lashed out again, the silvery blade cutting a long gash on the man's shoulder this time. Erik's fist managed to connect with Buquet's nose as the stagehand jumped to his feet; he howled, putting a hand to his clearly broken nose and striking out at Erik again the moment his hand came away bloody.

The crowd was beginning to get restless as the fight continued for another few minutes; should they go for help, assist themselves, simply watch and wait? Yes, it would be better to do that for now, especially as Buquet seemed to be winning…

Suddenly, so quickly that if someone had blinked they might have missed it, Buquet's knife caught Erik in the side. Erik shoved him back with a short, sharp cry, and as Buquet stumbled the knife slipped from his hands. Both men dove for it, but Erik was closer and just a split second faster. Suddenly frightened, Buquet charged forward, intent on getting his knife back…

Erik never knew whether, in the ensuing scuffle, he had stabbed Buquet by accident or on purpose, or even a combination of the two, but the stagehand stumbled backwards, an expression of immense surprise plastered across his face as he looked down at the blood spreading across his chest. As he stumbled backwards, away from the immobile Phantom, he collapsed to the ground, writhing and coughing for a few endless moments before he finally lay still.

Horrified, Erik dropped the knife. _He deserved it, he deserved death_… he thought fervently. It was true, he knew it was true, after everything that Buquet had done, but now Erik had more blood on his hands… he had taken another life.

After several moments, the crowd grasped just what had happened and realized that it was now their turn. One man alone hadn't been able to stop the monster, but now he was tired and injured; he couldn't stand against all of them.

"_Murderer!_" someone cried, and his shouts were repeated until the passageway echoed with that hateful word.

"_No!_"

Christine's protestations were lost in the din, but she kept screaming, kept struggling against Emory and one of the male dancers who had joined the tenor in his task of keeping her safe. But no matter how hard she fought against their strong hold on her, no matter how much she screamed for them to stop and listen to her, that they were making a terrible mistake, there was nothing more she could do except watch and yell as the crowd suddenly deluged on Erik like a tidal wave upon a cliff.

In only a matter of seconds, the knife was kicked from his hand, and he was attacked from all sides by men who must have lost their minds. Even though he turned as quickly as he could, tried desperately to stay on top of his attackers, there were simply too many of them; for every one he faced, there were three behind him, not waiting for him to turn, not giving him a fair chance. After all, who would offer honor to a ghost and a murderer?

Someone grabbed hold of his cloak from behind him, and he struggled to untie it as they pulled and twisted at the fabric, choking him. As soon as he was free of it, he let go and fell forward into the crowd. He barely felt the cuts and bruises they must have given him as he tumbled to the ground and now strove to get back to his feet.

When he finally did get up, someone tore his mask away. They threw it aside, and it was instantly trampled under the rampaging feet surrounding him.

"Let go of me!" Christine yelled, to no avail. She didn't care that she was beginning to lose her voice; she had to get to Erik…! Suddenly she spotted someone who might release her. "Carlos! _Carlos!_ Please, help me!"

Carlos turned to look at her, and for one agonizing moment, did nothing. He was not taking part in the frenzy – something told him that the Phantom would never kill so cold-bloodedly. But the man had been a menace, a danger, for so many years… did he deserve this? And Christine… if he helped Christine, got them to let her go, she would get hurt!

But a man's life was in danger…

Without another thought, Carlos ran over to Christine and shoved Emory and the dancer away from her. After a whispered 'thank you,' Christine launched herself at the nearest person, shoving him aside as best she could, slowly working her way towards the center of the fight and Erik.

Erik was fighting a losing battle, he knew that. There were simply too many people to contend with… Someone kicked the back of his knee, and he collapsed, grimacing. He tried to stand but only fell to his knees again, dizzy with loss of blood. He was only just able to stay upright when something smashed into the right side of his face. Warding off another blow at the same time, he wiped blood out of his eyes and found that he could still see properly. Suddenly, all the breath was knocked out of him and he sprawled on the cold floor as a sharp kick connected with his ribs. He groaned as he heard their jeers and catcalls above him, he tried to get up, at least to his knees again, but his arms would no longer support his weight. His vision began to blur, and just as a pair of gentle hands touched him, he lost consciousness all together.

"No!" Christine cried. She had finally reached Erik, finally shoved away his attackers, and he went limp just as she got to him… "No, Erik, please…"

"We've beaten the Phantom!" someone cried, and his shout was followed by a chorus of enthusiastic 'hooray!'s.

"It's all over! I expect the management'll want proof of this, though…" someone reached towards Erik's still form…

"Get away!" Christine shrieked, shielding Erik with her body. "Haven't you done enough, you pack of monsters?"

"What? Have you lost your mind, girl?"

"I am perfectly sane! I have, however, just witnessed a crowd of people I thought were my friends assault a man for a crime he did not commit!"

Only stunned silence followed Christine's accusation.

"He did not attack Genevieve, I know he would never do such a thing. If you want a murderer, look over there!" she pointed at the body of Joseph Buquet. "This man was being completely truthful when he said that Buquet had been impersonating him!"

Everyone looked from Buquet's body to Christine and Erik to each other and back again; a storm of confused chatter erupted in the crowd.

"Wait a moment! How do we know who's to trust?"

"I don't care if you believe me or not, I'm telling the truth! Believe what you will! It doesn't matter now; you've done what you came here for! All of you, go back to your homes, go back to your lives, forget about the Angel in Hell! I know you will!" Christine's voice broke, hoarse from all the shouting, but she continued. She felt almost as though the words weren't hers, as though she were playing a part in a very strange opera… "Forget that any of this ever happened! Forget the blood that has been shed tonight!"

Shocked and startled, the crowd began to move away from her, unsure of whether she had gone insane or she was really telling the truth. Finally, some of them came to their senses and rushed off to inform the manager of what had taken place. Slowly, very slowly, the passageway began to empty, and Christine was left alone with Erik.

Carefully, she slipped around behind him and gently pulled his head and shoulders off the ground, nearly crying with relief when she saw that he was still breathing.

"You'll be all right, Erik, you'll be all right… please, God, you _have _to be all right!"

"Christine?"

It seemed that she wasn't completely alone; Carlos and Raoul had stayed.

"Are you all right, Christine?" Carlos asked shakily. Christine couldn't answer.

"You… told me that you didn't know the Phantom," Raoul said tentatively, still very confused and wanting some answers.

"I don't, Raoul. Not really… Oh, God, what's the use now? Erik is the Opera Ghost… but he's a good man, Raoul… whatever he may have done, he didn't deserve this…"

Christine looked away from them and back to Erik, tears welling in her eyes as she tenderly pulled some of his straight black hair away from the cut on his cheek. As she did so, she turned his head so that Raoul and Carlos could clearly see the deformed right side.

"Dear God… what did they do to his _face_?" Raoul asked, horrified, thinking in the dim light that the injuries had happened that night.

Christine, however, looked up and gave him such an intense glare through her tears that he didn't press the matter any further.

"Is he…?" Carlos asked, unable to help it, and admittedly relieved when Christine shook her head.

"N-no, he's alive… and we have to get him out of the Opera before anyone comes back… Somehow, we've got to get him to my flat."

"Christine, your flat is clear across Paris! How are we going to manage to get out of the Opera, let alone through the streets?"

Christine thought for a long moment about the one route to the Rue Scribe entrance that didn't pass through Erik's home that she did know… she could probably find her way there…

"Will you both help me?" she asked quietly.

"Of course!" both Raoul and Carlos answered, nearly at the same time.

"Raoul, could you please hail a brougham and tell it to wait for us on the Rue Scribe? Carlos, if you could get my cloak from my dressing room, we could probably get Erik there together…"

They both nodded and set off. As she waited for Carlos to return, Christine carefully propped Erik up into a sitting position, his back leaning against her chest, wrapping her arms securely around his shoulders. As she moved her hands, she knocked something out of one of Erik's pockets. She searched around for it for a moment in the dim light until she found a small, square black box, slightly squashed now, and picked it up. _What on earth_… she wondered, and, with one hand still supporting him, she flicked the box open.

She shut it again almost immediately, and, fighting tears now more than ever, tucked her head into the crook of Erik's shoulder. Inside the box was a small, simple gold band.

_Oh, God, Erik_…_ you could have asked_…_ I would have said yes_… _I still would_… _Please, God, _please…_ let him be all right_…"

After a moment, she was able to compose herself. Having no place to keep the box, she slipped the ring onto her finger and tossed the jewelers' box aside, wishing that Carlos would return soon.

He soon did. Cautiously, the two of them wrapped Erik in Christine's cloak and used it almost as a stretcher to help them support him. Maneuvering the broad-shouldered man through the dark passageways and across the lake was no mean feat, but somehow the two of them accomplished it, extremely grateful to see Raoul waiting with the hansom on the Rue Scribe. As Christine distracted the driver with directions to her flat – which were probably superfluous for the poor man – Raoul and Carlos lifted Erik into the cab together. All three of them were immensely relieved when they were all inside and the carriage began to move.

None of them spoke much during the trip; Christine was far too worried about Erik to say anything. She pressed the fabric of her cloak tightly against the gash in Erik's side, hoping that it had already or would soon stop bleeding…

At long last, they reached Christine's apartment building. This time it was Raoul's turn to divert the driver, distracting him with the far more engaging practice of arguing over the fare. The stairs to Christine's flat proved tricky, but manageable. As they walked slowly up them, Raoul noticed something that might have looked rather odd to the driver.

"Christine… I've just realized… there's blood all over the front of your dress," he said.

In spite of the dire situation, Christine had to laugh as she saw that it was true.

"That poor man, he probably thinks he just drove a group of murderers around."

Luckily, Christine had forgotten to lock her door yesterday afternoon when she had returned for a moment to fetch something – she couldn't even remember what now. It didn't matter; Christine pushed open the front door and then led Raoul and Carlos into her little bedroom, motioning for Erik to be put down on her bed. After acquiring a bowl of warm water, the cleanest dishrag she had, and two of her old petticoats that were on their last legs anyway and could easily be torn into bandages, she knelt at the side of her bed and braced herself for what she had to do now.

"Will you be all right from here, Christine?" Raoul asked awkwardly.

"Yes, I'll be fine. Thank you both so much for your help… I'll… I doubt I'll ever be able to repay you for this…"

Raoul intended to protest, but he knew that Christine would hear nothing of it. Most likely, she also wanted a bit of privacy; if she wanted any more help, he knew she would ask for it, and so he bid her goodnight, telling her that he would stop by to check on both Erik and her in the morning.

Carlos lingered, however.

"If you like, I can stay with you tonight, if you'd like some company."

"That's very kind of you, Carlos… but don't be silly; you have to go back to rehearsal tomorrow morning, don't you?"

"Yes… and… so do you…"

"I'm not going back," Christine said simply, soaking the dishrag in water. "After what's just happened… I can't go back. I'm sorry… you must understand…"

Carlos nodded – he did.

"I'll tell Lefévre tomorrow, if you'd like." Christine said nothing. "Good night, Christine… I'll come back after rehearsal tomorrow, and I'll bring Meg… goodness knows, Madame Giry might even let us out early for this…"

Christine turned and smiled at Carlos.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Carlos smiled back, though it was an exhausted smile, and he turned and left, closing the front door with a click behind him. Christine sighed and began to peel Erik's jacket, waistcoat and shirt away from his many cuts in order to wash and wrap them as best she could. She was finished by the time the sun rose a few hours later, and although she was thoroughly exhausted she did not allow herself to sleep. Listlessly, she washed the blood off her hands and arms and changed into a clean dress, then returned to Erik's side, sitting a silent vigil nearby him, with the same words running through her head over and over and over again…

_Please let him live, let him live, let him live_…

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A/N: So, was that a satisfactory demise for Buquet? I figured I'd have to come up with something really good after I got all your hopes up before! Please let me know what you think... if you're especially nice (and I have a spare minute), maybe I'll update the next chapter a little faster... 

Oh! Bother, I almost forgot: I've started a new story, called _Dell'amore Non Si Sa_. (Yes, that's Italian. It means "with love, you never know." Everything is so much less cheesy in other languages...) If you've got a minute, go check it out! Chapter two goes up tonight!

Thanks very much for reading! --Kyrie


	34. Mouth of Hell In, Out, and Back Again

A/N: Blast it, I'm late again, aren't I? Again, I'm dreadfully sorry.

Many thanks to The Phangirl, I'm stalking you, ladyAlyafaelyn, phantom-jedi, Nyasia A. Maire, mikabronxgirl, Anges Radieux, Kathryn Glover, HDKingsbury, mildetryth, Luckii.Jinx, and Circe Visigoth for their reviews. I'm glad you all liked the last chapter so much!

And I hope you enjoy this one, in spite of the delay...

And blast, my full title doesn't fit!

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Chapter 34: The Mouth of Hell; In, Out, and Back Again 

_Erik found himself stumbling almost blindly through the pitch blackness of the tunnel. He was in the Opera House, of that he was sure, but he didn't know where he was, had no idea of how long he had been lost down there, how far he had blundered as he searched for_…_ whatever it was he had to find. _

_He knew there was something. There had to be something_…_ but what? What? What_…

_The black passages echoed with a thick silence, an oppressing silence, the darkness and the stillness pressing in all around him_…_ why was he so confused? What could have happened? Why was he so lost?_

_At last, he stopped, feeling as though it would be far easier to collapse on the cold stone floor beneath his feet and not get up than it would be to find whatever it was he was searching for. No, he couldn't do that_…_ couldn't give up now_…_ there was a reason_… _an important reason_…

_He pressed his face into his hands, and suddenly he remembered what it was he was looking for. His mask. That was what he needed to find, what he desperately needed to find_…

_He stumbled onward, searching for some flash of white in the blackness, afraid to get onto the floor and search with his hands, afraid that if he did, he would not be able to get up. Each slow movement was forced, uncoordinated, unbelievably taxing_…_ and he didn't know what had happened. Something had to have happened, had to be something_…_ something_…

_Suddenly, there was the faintest hint of sound in the silence, the softest whisper of music. This was more important than his mask, this music_…_ he walked towards it, feeling stronger as the sound grew louder_…_ Soon he could tell that it was one lone voice, an angel's voice, singing to him_…_ a clear, sweet soprano_…_ He knew somehow that her song was meant for him, and it sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it_…_ he went nearer still. There was no face to the voice, nothing to break up the darkness, but if he closed his eyes as he walked, he could just barely picture her face_…

_He knew her. He did_…_ Christine! It was Christine! It had to be! _

_Cursing his leaden limbs, he forced himself to move faster, towards Christine_…_ if he could find her, she could show him the way out, he was sure of it_…

_But just as her song reached its climax, just as her voice truly began to soar, another sound entered the black tunnel, a horrible sound, a _mockery_ of a sound_… _A thick, maniacal laughter erupted from nowhere_… _and Erik could no longer hear Christine_…_ he called out to her, but his words died on his lips_…_ he covered his ears with his hands, stumbled backwards, anything to block out that horrible sound, that horrible laughter_…

_Collapsing against a wall, Erik could not help but breathe heavily_…_ he felt so tired_…_ after another long moment, he realized something else. He recognized that voice as well. Buquet. _

_The terrible laughter did not cease._

_Would not cease. _

_Buquet jeered at him…_

_The tunnel floor pitched out from underneath him. He fell. _

_There are demons down there_…_ black against red fire_…_ and they wield shovels and pitchforks and poke up fires and stir up flames and_…

_Erik drifted. Sharp pain began building beneath his skin, hot, burning, unbearable_…_ He could hear voices above him_…_ two voices_…_ Christine? Just_…_ noise. Sound. He let the blackness overwhelm him once more_…

* * *

_31st January 1882_

Christine looked up, startled, at the knock at the front door. Then she remembered Raoul's promise to return in the morning.

"Coming," she said as she got to her feet to open it, although she doubted that he could hear her. Her voice was almost completely gone, raw and croaky from all the shouting the night before…

_You can't dwell on last night, Christine, Erik needs you_… she reminded herself firmly.

She opened the door and greeted Raoul with a tired smile.

"Hello, Raoul," she said, stepping back and allowing him into the room before turning and heading back to her bedroom; she didn't want to leave Erik for more than a moment…

"Are you feeling all right, Christine? Your voice…" Raoul asked concernedly.

"I… shouted quite a lot… last night…" she replied haltingly, stopping just before entering her room. Raoul nodded.

"How is he?"

Christine waved her hand into her room, motioning for Raoul to follow her in, and she knelt down beside Erik again

"No worse… no better," she whispered.

Raoul stayed silent; he spent the next few minutes trying to think of something – anything – to say. But he could come up with nothing adequate… what could he say to someone who was in danger of losing someone they loved dearly? It was instantly clear to him that Erik meant the world to her… from the mix of sadness and desperate hope on her face to the way she seemed to automatically reach for the wounded man's hand, it could not be more obvious… and he guessed that the gold ring on her finger was no coincidence.

"He'll be all right, Christine…" he finally said softly, even though he had no way of knowing.

"He has to be…" Christine replied, almost inaudibly, her hoarse voice choked with tears.

After a taught moment, she wiped furiously at her eyes, blinking hard.

"I'm sorry…" she said, "I know I shouldn't… not now…"

"No, don't apologize…" Raoul said quickly, feeling extremely awkward.

He suddenly noticed the way her head drooped forward heavily, just how pale and drawn her face was.

"Did you get any sleep last night, Christine?" He was not surprised when she shook her head. "You're not going to run yourself ragged, are you?"

"No, of course not…"

"Then you'll get some sleep once I leave?"

Christine remained silent. There was a very good reason why she was not allowing herself to sleep, but she couldn't explain it to Raoul. In truth, she was terrified that if she fell asleep, Erik would be… gone… when she woke up…

She squeezed her eyes shut at the thought, breathing heavily, trying to calm her heartbeat. Who would have thought that an idea could hurt so piercingly?

"Christine?" Raoul asked, his voice closer to her than it had been; he had knelt down beside her. "Are you all right?"

She nodded, unable to speak, unable to trust her voice. _He'll be all right, Christine, he'll be all right_…_ you _must _stay strong for him_…_ he needs you_…_ he'll be all right_…

"Christine?" There was worry in his voice now.

"I'm scared, Raoul," Christine whispered, shivering.

Once again lost for words, all Raoul could think to do was put a friendly, comforting arm around her shoulder and sit with her in silence. There wasn't anything more he needed to do.

* * *

_With a snarl, Erik whirled out of Box Five and into the deserted hallway. Something was going to have to be done about that Giudicelli woman – she butchered even the simplest music. The harpy had no sense of delicacy, of tact or artistry. And yet somehow she was a highly lauded performer_… 

_Now that _was _a laughable concept. _

_Intent on returning to his underground home to pen a letter to the idiot who served as the manager – concerning Carlotta, of course – he wound his way through the multitudinous shadows in the hallways of the _Palais Garnier. _All the ornamentation that Erik had at first argued so vehemently against served a great purpose, far from the originally intended one; it created so many wonderful places for a ghost to hide. _

_And a moment later, he was sorely in need of a place to hide. Damned ballet girls! These were older ones as well; they ought to know not to sneak out during rehearsals to search for the Phantom! But that didn't seem to be what they were giggling about this time_…_ Curious, Erik slid a little closer to them, still remaining hidden, but he could see them more clearly now. There were five of them, all in their late teens, although there was one girl who seemed younger. Her pale skin was flushed with embarrassment, and she slouched over nervously, pushing a lock of curly hair back behind her ear and then fidgeting with her hands. A _shy _ballet girl? He had thought it impossible_…_ Without thinking, he began to watch her intently._

_"Oh, go on, Christine! Meg told us that you were a wonderful singer!" one of the other girls said excitedly._

_Meg_…_ Erik thought, that would be Adele's daughter, then. Come to think of it, he had seen a quiet, curly-haired girl around Meg often enough; odd that he hadn't paid any attention to her until now. _

_"N-not really_…_" the girl called Christine stammered._

_"Please, Christine? Just one song, please? Pleeeeeeeeease?" _

_All four other girls ganged up on her, and the poor child had to give in. The others squealed with delight and stepped back, waiting for her to begin. Little did he know it, but Erik was also waiting with baited breath_…

_And he barely breathed throughout her song. She sang "Au Clair de la Lune," an immensely simple, childhood song, but she took the uncomplicated tune and gave it wings_…_ her voice was very clearly untrained, but her tone was crystal clear, her pitch perfect_…_ all she needed was the range, and she could easily supplant Carlotta. _

_Erik found himself unable to pay attention to the girls' compliments and chatter afterwards – all he could think of was the girl Christine, and how he was going to get her to trust him enough to let him teach her_…

_"Christine, who taught you to sing like that?" one girl asked excitedly._

_"My father did_…_ when I was little. But he_…_ he promised to send me the Angel of Music… and he would continue teaching me, now that Papa's gone_…_" _

_The girls burst out laughing. _

_"You're sixteen and you still believe in fairytales?!"_

_Erik's hands curled into fists as poor Christine went redder and redder under their torment, twisting her hands together, clearly petrified. He wanted nothing more than to silence those insolent ballet girls_…_ what did it matter if she still believed in angels? Even though she was – apparently – sixteen, Erik saw the soft light of childhood hope and innocence still clinging to her. She was not like the others, not like them at all._

_Perhaps it was time for her Angel of Music to appear_…

_A few days later, he did. He had been silently following Christine almost nonstop for the past few days, waiting for his chance to catch her on her own, wishing that she had a dressing room of her own so that he could teach her without fear of being interrupted. Finally, she was alone one evening in the ballet girls' dormitory, and he seized the chance. He had already worked out how he was going to introduce himself, and so, before he changed his mind, he began to sing. It was a wordless melody, one of his own compositions, admittedly written shortly after he had first heard her sing_…_ it was one of the most captivating pieces he had ever written. _

_As he began, very softly, he saw Christine freeze, holding stock still, as though if she moved she would lose the music… Erik sang a little louder, and slowly, her head rose, looking around for the origin of the music, an expression of ecstatic awe on her face, her eyes glowing with astonishment. He could not help but notice how beautiful she was_…

_"A-angel?" she stammered when Erik finished. "Is that really you?"_

_"Yes, Christine. I am here," he breathed, caught completely off guard by her reaction. _

_"Are you going_…_ going to teach me_…_ like my father promised you would?" she asked timidly, sounding so innocent, so childlike_…_ so opposite him_…

_"I am, Christine, but there are two things I must ask you before I teach you anything. Firstly_…_ I need you to promise me that you will not speak of your lessons or your teacher to anyone. They_…_ would not understand."_

_"Of course," she replied, nodding. _

_"And secondly_…_" he paused for a moment longer than he meant to, afraid to sound insecure_…_ "I need you to trust me."_

_"I trust you completely, Angel," Christine said emphatically, smiling. _

_Erik was instantly lost in that smile._

* * *

_32nd January 1882_

_I'm running out of things to do to occupy myself_… Christine thought.

Suddenly, there was an urgent pounding on her door.

"Christine! It's me!" Meg cried from outside.

"Coming!" Christine answered, glad that her voice seemed to be coming back.

She got to her feet and hurried to open the front door before Meg tried to do it for her, in spite of the fact that it was locked.

"Hello, Meg," she said as cheerily as she could manage, stepping back to allow her best friend into her flat. "It's nice to see you – Carlos said yesterday afternoon that Madame Giry couldn't spare you…"

"_Maman_ has given me the afternoon off today. I felt so awful, not coming yesterday… Christine, I'm so sorry! Is there anything I can do to help? What happened? Carlos told me some of it, but…" Meg trailed off quickly when she realized that her blithering probably wasn't helping.

_Please, Meg_… _talk about anything else_… _anything_… Christine wanted to say, but she didn't.

"Have things… settled down over the past few days?" she asked, almost afraid to find out.

"Well…" Meg began, feeling rather guilty to have to tell her friend what had been happening, "The entire… everyone… seems to have… well, most everyone is… thrilled… that the… ghost is gone," she said haltingly, feeling extremely awkward.

"I didn't expect any different," Christine said quietly, a hint of anger in her voice.

"No… I suppose not… but Reyer and Lefévre aren't thrilled at all; they're _furious_. Erm… well, mostly with you, really, since you haven't come back and we still have performances…"

Christine couldn't help but chuckle.

"So Carlos hasn't told anyone, then. I knew it… He must be hoping that I… he promised me he would, though…"

"Tell us what?" Meg asked apprehensively.

"I'm not going back, Meg. Ever. I can't."

"_What?_ Of course you can! No one's going to… I don't know, attack you! Is that what you're afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid of anything, Meg, that's not the reason. You… you weren't there that night… you didn't see what happened… God, you didn't see what they _did _to him!" Christine's voice broke and she hid her face in her hands for a moment, until they curled into shaking fists, her head bowed in anger.

"Christine?"

"They didn't _think_… didn't think at all! They didn't see that it wasn't a ghost or a monster that they were fighting, it was a man. Erik is no… children's fairy tale! He's a living, breathing man… a man just like the rest of them… they didn't even give him a chance, Meg! It was… it was so horrible… I don't know any of them any more. I can't go back to a place where they treat people like that. I'm sorry, Meg."

Meg was still staring at her best friend in shock and disbelief.

"You're… you're really not coming back, are you?"

"Meg, I'm so sorry… but I can't, I just couldn't bear to face them after what they've done… I know I will have to go back, at least for a little while, to collect my things… and I suppose I ought to return the costume, but I doubt they'd want it now. There was no time for me to change before Erik and I had to… run, so there's blood all over the costume… and no matter what I try I can't get it out."

Meg suddenly burst out laughing.

"No, Christine, return it just like it is, bloodstains and all! Wouldn't that show them! I'd call that a rude awakening, wouldn't you?"

Christine nodded, unable to resist joining in with her friend's laughter.

"It would be…"

Christine suddenly forgot what she had meant to say next, however, as a strangled cry from the next room sent her racing to Erik's side. He was caught in the throes of what could only be a horrible dream, tossing and turning wildly… if he didn't stop, he might hurt himself further! Christine sat on the edge of the bed, grabbing his hand quickly, leaning over and gently putting her other hand on his cheek, which also served to pin him down a little bit.

"Erik! Erik, it's all right… It's all right, my love, I'm here…"

Christine went on reassuring Erik for another few moments, unsure of whether he could hear her or not, until he stopped thrashing and seemed to be sleeping peacefully again. Relieved, she hung her head tiredly, her resolve to stay awake tested severely as she hovered only inches above Erik… it would be so easy just to collapse, to sleep… but she couldn't, she just couldn't…

"Are you all right, Christine?" Meg asked, not at all convinced when her friend simply nodded.

Meg looked around the little room and saw obvious signs that Christine hadn't left Erik's side for more than a moment in the past two days; three books were scattered over the floor, as though Christine had tried to distract herself with them and had failed. Her old librettos, usually so neatly stacked, were piled haphazardly nearby, a small sewing basket stuck in the corner and abandoned.

"Christine, have you gotten any sleep at all since this happened?" No reply. "You haven't left him, have you? Have you at least eaten something?" Still no response. Meg had been dreading that. "Christine, it's no use to him if you starve yourself!"

"I'm fine, Meg," Christine replied, sounding hoarse, exhausted, and a little annoyed.

Her back was still to Meg; she was still bent over Erik, clutching his hand. She didn't have the energy to argue…

"I'm not leaving until you eat something, Christine. You'll make yourself sick, carrying on like this."

Without too much fuss, Christine gave in.

* * *

_2nd February 1882; late_

All of yesterday and all of today, Christine had been alone with Erik's unconscious form and her own thoughts… not something she wanted to be left alone with.

She looked up from her now customary position, kneeling in the same spot beside her bed, to Erik's face. Moonlight from the small window above her bed spilled across his still features, and Christine found herself praying for the millionth time that he would be all right…

Of their own accord, Christine's eyes closed and almost refused to open again, her eyelids were so heavy… she ironed her face with her hands, but that didn't do any good. She couldn't keep this up much longer, even though she was constantly promising herself one night, one more night, and then Erik would wake up and everything would be fine… but that hadn't happened yet. It _would_ happen, _had to _happen… it would, it would…

But her disobedient body was completely exhausted and unable to put up with her excuses any longer. Slowly, she put her head down on the edge of the mattress, cradling it in her arm, hoping against hope that simply resting for a few minutes would be enough…

* * *

_Erik floundered blindly, lost, drowning, in a sea of blood_…_ his blood_…_ blood _he _had shed_… _he was nowhere, he was sinking, burning, falling, dying_… 

_With a strangled cry and a lightning jolt of pain, he sank_…

…………

_Christine was there, waiting for him, smiling at him the way she always did_…_ Erik returned it, pulling her into his arms, almost unable to believe that she really did love him_…_ He reached down and kissed her_…

_Suddenly she was gone, wrenched away from him, vanished… he looked around, saw only darkness where Christine's light had once been… suddenly, Buquet was there, laughing at him, taunting him_…_ he had taken Christine from him_…

_Erik struck, struck hard_… _momentarily forgot everything except all the hatred and lies and torment he had always known_…

…………

Bright… why was it so bright? Erik closed his eyes tighter, tried to turn away from the light shining in his face, but it was too strong, and every move he made _hurt_… why? What had…?

Buquet.

Jolted into awareness, Erik opened his eyes and realized that he had no idea where he was. The room he was in was small, simply furnished, and the light was sunlight spilling through the window… where was he? Who…?

As he looked around, he saw something – rather, someone – that made everything clear to him. At the edge of the bed he was lying in was the sleeping form of Christine, her head and shoulders resting on the same mattress he was lying on. Staying very still so as to avoid the sharp ache that seized him whenever he shifted, he studied her face carefully, not caring if he was feeling slightly groggy. She looked exhausted; she was paler than usual and sported large circles under her eyes… and she was frowning slightly. He was tempted to wake her; there was nothing more he wanted than to talk to her again, but she seemed to be in desperate need of sleep… and his own treacherous body was sinking back onto the pillows again, slipping into the nothingness of a finally dreamless sleep…

* * *

A/N: Whew. Right now I am REALLY glad that I have some chapters stockpiled for this!!! I haven't been able to write a word for a week! Urinetown opens next Thursday - that is more or less taking over my life at the moment. That, unfortunately, means that "Dell'amore Non Si Sa" might not be updated for a while, because there's a great deal of research I have to do and no time to do it. I'll try my best to get chapter three up this weekend, since that's halfway done. 

Anyway, I hope you liked that chapter - I'm rather fond of that first dream sequence myself. Please let me know what you think! Reviews are lovely, always. Thanks for reading! --Kyrie


	35. The First Day Back

A/N: ACK!!! I apologize immensely for the delay... yesterday was so crazy, what me rushing from school to voice lesson to performance... The play's going immensely well, but it did keep me from updating yesterday. Terribly sorry.

Anyway, thanks very much to ladyAlyafaelyn, mikabronxgirl, The Phangirl, Luckii.Jinx, Nyasia A. Maire, HDKingsbury, Kathryn Glover, -Green-Clown, draegon-fire, phantom-jedi1, and Anges Radieux for their reviews, in spite of the fact that alerts seem to have crashed _yet again_. They're up and running again now, though, as far as I can tell. Yay!

So, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

* * *

Chapter 35: The First Day Back

_3rd February 1882_

Sighing softly, Christine tucked her head further beneath her arm, feeling so warm and comfortable that she didn't want to move any further…

She realized with a jolt that she had fallen asleep, and although horrified at the thought, she couldn't bring herself to wake up any faster. How long had she been sleeping? A few minutes? Hours? Maybe even all day?

Groggily, she raised her head and rubbed her eyes with her fingers, noting that the sun was not longer coming in through her bedroom window, but her front room seemed bright enough from the sliver of bright sunlight she could see through the door. She must have fallen asleep all night and all morning…

_Erik_…

Now her movements were faster, and she turned around quickly to see if Erik was all right, if he had taken a turn for the worse while she had been asleep. Her eyes widened in surprise and the first true smile she'd worn in days broke across her face as she saw that he was awake and looking up at her.

"Erik!" she cried excitedly, sitting down on the edge of the bed and taking one of his hands gently in hers. "How long have you been awake?"

"I've been just dozing on and off most of this morning," he replied, resisting the urge to shrug. A sharp jerk of his shoulders probably wouldn't be a good idea…

"You could have woken me," Christine said, thoroughly annoyed at allowing herself to fall asleep now.

"I didn't want to," he said, giving her a crooked smile. In truth, he had enjoyed watching her sleep. "You looked as though you needed the rest."

Christine smiled sheepishly back at him.

"I… suppose I did."

With a groan, Erik attempted to sit up slowly by propping himself up on his hands and shifting backwards, but, much to his frustration, he could only manage it with Christine's help. She sat beside him, gently supporting his shoulders and then slid an extra pillow behind him.

"Comfortable?" she asked, and he nodded. She still had her arm around his shoulders, and he was fervently hoping that she would not move any time soon. "I'm so glad you're awake, Erik, I was getting worried…"

"How long has it been?" he asked, puzzled. Had he really been asleep for that long?

"A little more than four days… it could have been much worse, I suppose, but still…"

Erik was silent. He'd been unconscious for four days… and he was still _so_ tired…

"Are you hungry, Erik? Or thirsty?" she asked quickly, realizing that she should have asked sooner.

"A little, I suppose…"

"I'll go make us both some breakfast – I think Meg would probably have a fit if she found out I didn't eat something as well. She's worse than her mother," Christine joked, smiling, and giving Erik a kiss on the cheek before getting up.

While Christine was gone, Erik studied the little room he was in more carefully, but could not place where he was at all. But he could see the clear blue sky through the little window above the bed… how long had it been since he had woken up to the sun in his face, the way he had that morning?

He tried to move a little to see more out the window, but a searing pain shot all down his left side, concentrated on his side, forearm, and shoulder. Carefully, he rolled up his sleeve, noticing for the first time that he was wearing a clean, probably even new, pair of pyjamas, and looked down at his arm. He realized that there was a thick, white bandage wrapped around it, and as he watched, part of it slowly began to turn red… _Damn_, he thought. If only he could get up, he could take care of this himself, but he severely doubted that his legs would hold his weight…

"Christine?" he asked, entirely annoyed at his current state of helplessness. "Could you… come here a moment? I'm afraid I am in need of your assistance."

Almost immediately, Christine came into view around the doorframe, a questioning expression on her face.

"I moved," he explained, gingerly holding up his arm so that she could see the white fabric slowly turning red.

"Oh, dear," she said, vanishing again and returning in a moment with a roll of bandages, a pair of scissors, and a damp cloth.

"I asked Carlos to find a few things for me the other day," she said as she knelt down next to him and began to carefully unwind the old dressings, answering a few unspoken questions.

"Christine… where are we, exactly?" he asked as he watched her small hands move in deft circles around his arm – which he was now keeping _very _still.

"My flat," she replied, concentrating on the task at hand.

"How in the world did you get me all the way over… ouch!"

Christine had reached the point where the white fabric was actually stuck to the wound, and, as careful as she was, she couldn't help but pull at his skin a little bit, and he flinched away.

"Sorry," she said, smiling apologetically at him.

Gently, she cleaned the gash with the damp rag she'd brought in, trying to ignore Erik's occasional wince and simply finished rewrapping his arm, finally tying off the bandage and turning to look at him.

"Do you know if you've pulled at anything else?"

"No…" he replied; he had not thought of that. "I doubt it…"

Christine raised one eyebrow skeptically; Erik almost laughed at the expression she now wore.

"Oh, all right, maybe," he said.

Christine smiled.

"Can you get at all the buttons by yourself?" she asked.

It took Erik a moment to realize exactly what she was asking him. Of course, the wounds in his side and shoulder were covered by his pyjama shirt… He nodded and, awkwardly, feeling slightly ill at ease, struggled to undo the buttons on his shirt without jarring his shoulder further.

Which proved to be an impossible task. The third time she heard him hiss softly, Christine wordlessly took over the last few buttons on the top and helped him shrug it off, trying to keep her face from turning beet red. Naturally, it was the gash in his side that had reopened and not the one on his shoulder, which made the next several minutes very uncomfortable indeed.

_This was much easier when he wasn't conscious and_…looking_ at me_… Christine thought, flustered, attempting and failing to ignore the fact that her face was inches away from his chest as she redressed the cut and that she could almost feel him staring at her.

Erik stayed very still throughout the whole process, fervently wishing that Christine wouldn't move. He'd never experienced anything like the soft touch of her fingers on his bare skin… the feeling was absolutely wonderful. For what would probably be the only time, though, he was glad that he wasn't feeling entirely well… for he knew that if he was, the situation would probably be extremely… flammable.

Christine finished and straightened up, unable to hide the fact that her cheeks were bright red. Suddenly the teakettle whistled loudly in the other room and she left hurriedly, still blushing. Erik had to laugh – saved by the tea! Still chuckling, he gingerly pulled the pyjama shirt back on, thinking it would be more comfortable for both of them that way. When she returned, however, she was mirroring his silly grin.

"Careful – the tea is _very _hot," she said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and handing him the tray she was holding.

"Thank you – I'll keep that in mind."

Erik struggled for a very frustrating moment to get his stiff fingers to conform to the spoon, but they soon remembered how to bend and he gratefully started in on the oatmeal she had made him, realizing just how hungry he was.

Christine got up again and returned a moment later with her own breakfast, and the two of them sat and ate in silence. Christine couldn't find the words… she was thrilled beyond imagination that he was awake, that he _would _be all right and she hadn't been hoping in vain for those past few days.

Erik finally broke the silence at last when he finished eating.

"How… how badly was I hurt?"

"Badly enough… you lost a lot of blood from those three gashes and quite a few smaller cuts… and someone must have given you a really hard kick to the ribs, there's quite a nasty bruise there. I don't think anything's broken, though…"

Erik nodded, realizing that he had been too busy watching Christine to pay attention to himself… carefully, he put a hand to his ribs, prodding his side experimentally and wincing.

"No… not broken…" he said. Still, possibly cracked… definitely painful. He cursed inwardly at having to appear this weak in front of anyone… especially her.

Christine sensed what he was thinking, and was about to say something when there was a sharp knock on the front door. Both of them looked towards it, startled.

"Meg…" Christine said, by way of explanation.

She took his tray and got up to answer the door. Just as she left the room, Erik realized something rather important – he did not have his mask.

"Christine, wait!" he called, knowing better than to try and follow her, but wishing he could…

Too late; she was already at the door.

"Good morning, Meg… Raoul? Hello, I wasn't expecting you as well!"

Both of them said hello and followed her inside, a bit confused as to why she would say 'good morning' at one o'clock in the afternoon.

"You've caught us just finishing breakfast, I'm afraid…"

"Breakfast? So you have eaten something then, that's good… but it's after lunchtime… Wait, us? So is Erik…?"

Christine turned to Meg and nodded, beaming. Meg returned the grin, and Raoul smiled, glad to see Christine so happy again.

"Hello, Erik!" Meg called cheerily, knowing that Erik was probably listening to them.

"…Hello, Mademoiselle Giry…" he replied, feeling uneasy. Then, in an undertone that he hoped only Christine would hear, he added "Christine, I haven't got my mask…"

"Oh…" Christine said. That might prove problematic… she did not mind his face, and he knew that, but to have two complete strangers – to him, at least – see him without it…

"What did he say?"

"…Nothing. Ah… would you mind if we stayed out here? It really is a terrible mess in my bedroom… things just… haphazardly all over the floor…" she said haltingly, spreading her hands wide in an apologetic fashion.

Between the little of Erik's whisper he had caught and the glare she had given him when he'd mentioned her teacher's face before, Raoul could begin to work out what was going on. Meg, however, was completely clueless.

"Er… all right, I suppose…" she replied.

* * *

Once Meg and Raoul had gone, Christine returned to her bedroom and sank down on the bed beside Erik, feigning exhaustion.

"Well, that was an interesting afternoon, I must say. I'm sorry to have abandoned you like that," she said, smiling at him.

"That's all right… I fell asleep again through most of it," he said, grinning at her.

"Erik!" she said, pretending to be offended, but she couldn't hide the tears that welled up in her eyes… she was just so glad to have him back.

Erik returned her soft smile.

"Thank you, Christine…" he said, not knowing what else to say. She had probably – no, definitely – saved his life…

Christine said nothing, but she slid over a little closer to him and kissed him on the cheek.

* * *

A/N: I know, it was a bit shorter than the monster-chapters I've been churning out lately.

So... what did you think? Please let me know! And, as always, thanks for reading! --Kyrie


	36. A Matter of Space

A/N: Oh dear. _This _chapter. Not that I think I've done a horrendous job with it... if that were the case I'd have bombarded my lovely betas with questions long before now. No, it's just that this chapter (and the first section of the next one) are once again... a stretch for me. But then, you guys seem to like those. --wink--

Ahem. Thanks very much to ladyAlyafaelyn, the Phangirl, Nyasia A. Maire, Lucia Sasaki, Kathryn Glover, HDKingsbury, phantom-jedi1, -Green-Clown, and mikabronxgirl for their reviews! Yay!!!

* * *

Chapter 36: A Matter of Space 

_5th February 1882_

When Christine woke Sunday morning, it was to another sharp knock on the door. She pushed herself upright, trying to stretch out the kink she'd gotten in her neck from three nights of accidentally falling asleep on her bedroom floor.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" she said quietly as the knock came again and she got to her feet. She would have spoken louder so that whoever was at the door – presumably Meg, judging by their impatience – could hear her, but Erik was still asleep…

It was not Meg at the door, however; it was her mother.

"Madame Giry… what a surprise! Hello!" Christine said.

"Good morning, Christine… I hope I didn't wake you," the ballet mistress replied, following Christine inside and noticing the slightly disheveled appearance of her former pupil's hair and clothes.

"You did, but that's all right. I'm usually awake by now… but it's been a… difficult few days," Christine said, smiling a little.

Madame Giry nodded. She remembered what Meg had told her about Christine's refusal – whether on purpose or inadvertent – to allow herself to sleep and was glad that that was no longer the case.

"Meg mentioned that Erik regained consciousness… she was very confused as to why you wouldn't let her or Monsieur le Vicomte see him, though."

"Well…"

"No need to explain, Christine, I know why. Is he awake yet?"

"I don't think so," she answered, shaking her head.

Madame Giry nodded and gestured towards Christine's bedroom door.

"May I?"

"Of course…" Now it was Christine's turn to be slightly puzzled.

Madame Giry pushed the door open quietly to find Erik sitting up and yawning widely.

"Good morning, Adele," he said, then looking at Christine and returning her smile.

"I'm glad to see you're feeling better, Erik," she replied. "I'm sorry, Christine, I would have come sooner… but that idiot Lefévre swore up and down that they couldn't spare me, even for an hour."

Both Christine and Erik were silent at the mention of the Opera's manager… everything that had happened might have been avoided if Buquet had been properly questioned…

"He's retiring, you know," Adele continued. "All this week, he's been talking about how he's had enough – dealing with ghosts wasn't in the job description, after all." Erik chuckled. "I think you've really put him over the edge, though, Christine – having to find a new prima donna at the last minute like that…"

"_What?_" Erik asked, turning to look at Christine. "Why not just an understudy?"

"I'm not going back, Erik… I can't, after what they did to you…" Christine said quietly, smiling sadly at him.

It took Erik a moment to wipe the startled expression from his face. Of course she wouldn't be comfortable there anymore, not after what she had seen…

"I… I'm sorry, Christine… this never should have happened…"

"Of course it shouldn't have happened," Adele said briskly. "None of this should have. But it has."

A moment of awkward silence fell, no one speaking or looking at one another. Madame Giry finally cleared her throat and spoke.

"I ought to get back… I left the younger girls in Meg's care, which could prove to be a complete disaster if I'm gone much longer." Christine laughed, smiling again. "Oh, before I forget – might I have a word with you, Erik?"

Although she didn't say it, Christine caught the ballet mistress' implication and got up, smiling at Erik before leaving the little room and closing the door behind her.

"Anything you have to say can be said in front of Christine, you know," Erik said, raising an eyebrow.

"No, it can't. Well, part of it, at least. Here – I brought this for you… after hearing about my daughter's last visit I thought you would be grateful for it."

And she pulled his mask out from under her coat and held it out to him.

"Thank you," he said, taking it and quickly putting it on.

"Personally, I would wait for that cut on your face to heal a little more… but then, how often do you listen to me?"

"Very often, of late," he said in the same condescending tone, and both of them had to laugh.

"And the part that Christine is not allowed to hear?"

"Only this: when you're feeling better, this could prove to be a rather… awkward set up, if you catch my meaning."

Erik caught it, and he frowned.

"You just can't seem to trust me, can you? You do realize I've been alone with Christine for the better part of three months and nothing… like that… has happened?"

Adele rolled her eyes. He was missing her point.

"I'm glad to see you back to your usual stubborn self, Erik. Good morning," she said, and with that she left.

A moment later, Christine came back inside, looking puzzled.

"What did she say?"

"Nothing important… she brought my mask, though."

"That was nice of her," Christine said, sitting down next to him and leaning against his side. "Does that hurt?"

"Not at all, Christine," he replied, smiling and taking her hand.

He was surprised to find a metal band encircling one of her fingers. As much as he hoped it wasn't true – knew it couldn't be – his thoughts flew instantly to the de Chagny boy… what had happened while he was unconscious?

Christine felt him stiffen and sighed. She had been afraid he would react like that…

"Erik, it's all right…" she said, slipping her hand from his and holding it up so he could see the ring clearly. "I… it fell out of your pocket that night…"

Erik blinked at her.

"And you… does this mean…?"

"Yes, Erik… there's nothing I would like more," she answered, smiling.

After a moment of shocked silence, Erik wrapped his arms around her and held her close, ignoring the protestations his shoulder was making. He pressed his cheek into the crown of her head, praying that he wasn't dreaming.

* * *

_14th February 1882_

A week passed, and with each day Christine was having more and more trouble keeping Erik still. She was overjoyed that he was feeling so much better in such a short time, but she knew that he still was not up to doing things such as walking around by himself, even if Erik didn't want to admit it. The first time he had tried that, he quickly remembered that someone had kicked him in the knee, for his leg refused to hold his weight and, if it hadn't been for Christine and the doorframe, he would have fallen hard. He was able to walk if she supported him, however, and he was glad of the change of scenery. Christine's little flat was… for lack of a better word, cozy. It was airy, bright… everything his house on the lake was not, for the most part. His library and his music room had the potential… but only when she was there. He was still trying to grasp that she had really, truly agreed to marry him…

The small space was beginning to be a bit problematic, however, just as Madame Giry had predicted. Christine had taken to sleeping on the narrow couch in her front room – while it was more comfortable than the floor, it wasn't by much, and if she moved so much as an inch she was in danger of rolling off. There was also the small matter that her closet was in her bedroom, and Erik was beginning to wake up before Christine again. Usually, she would just slip through the room in her dressing gown, grab a dress and slip out again, but still… it was rather uncomfortable.

That morning, Erik found himself waking later than he had been lately. He would have yawned and stretched in his usual catlike manner, but he sensed that someone else was in the room and heard rustling fabric… silently, he opened his eyes and turned his head to see Christine standing in front of her little closet, taking something off a hanger. He knew he ought to turn away, close his eyes, something, when he saw that she was only wearing her skirt, chemise and corset, but… he didn't.

Completely unaware that he was awake, Christine slipped into her bodice and began closing the buttons in the back, having the usual trouble with the ones right in the middle of her back.

"Would you like some help?" Erik asked.

Christine nearly jumped two feet off the ground. She turned around quickly, her eyes wide and her face rapidly flushing.

"How long have you been watching me?" she asked, looking mortified.

"Not very," he said quickly; it _was _true. Although he felt bad for frightening her so much, he couldn't keep the devilish grin off his face.

After a moment, Christine couldn't help but laugh. Something like this had been bound to happen sooner or later anyway…

"Actually yes, I could use a hand," she said.

Erik sat up and Christine walked over to him and turned around. The feeling of his hands on her back made her tense up… but not at all in a bad way…

"Well," she said, turning around and sitting on the floor when he had finished "good morning, Erik."

He laughed, gently running his fingers through her hair; she smiled warmly back at him.

"So, after that interesting start to the day, what's next?"

"I'd like to see if I can get into your other room… on my own."

"Erik…" she said, intending to reprimand him, but stopping herself. She realized how awful it must be for him to be helpless in so many areas… especially since he was so used to watching over her. "All right, if you want to try… but I'll be there if you need me."

"I know," he said, leaning forward and kissing her softly.

Christine got to her feet again as he swung his legs out of the bed. He quickly pulled his mask on, ignoring Christine's frown, and pushed himself to his feet.

Slowly, he moved into the front room and towards the couch, each step cautious, but when he sat down again, he had only needed to lean on Christine twice.

"I'm glad your knee is feeling better," she said, sitting beside him and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

"So am I… although I wish I had some of my clothes with me instead of just these pyjamas…"

"Mmm…" Christine said, nodding. "On Sunday I'll go back to your house and get you some."

"Alone?" The Opera House was not a safe place in his mind anymore…

"Erik, if I can take care of someone as stubborn as you, I can take care of myself," she said with a laugh.

"True enough," he replied, unable to resist laughing as well.

* * *

_15th February 1882; nighttime_

"_'Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other or ever so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the least. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life.'_

Hmmm, I don't really think that's true at all, do you?"

Christine looked up from _Pride and Prejudice _and turned to look at Erik, who yawned.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Were you listening at all?" she asked, pretending to be deeply insulted as she turned fully around to look at him.

"Of course I was," he replied, "I've never much liked Jane Austen, though…"

"I was just thrilled to find that I actually had a book you've never read," Christine said, leaning back against his chest and tucking her head beneath his chin. "I think she's wrong, though, don't you?"

"Where?"

Christine reread the passage, pointing it out so that he could see it as well.

"Definitely not true," he answered, slipping his arm around her waist. "Although you are not at all like me in most respects… which is a good thing."

"Oh, Erik…" Christine sighed, "Must you be so… self-doubting? You are a good man; I _know_ that."

Erik didn't say anything; he just tightened his arm around her. It was only thanks to her that he had truly changed at all…

"Shall I go on?" Christine asked, turning her head to look at him again, bringing him back to the present.

"Please," he said, closing his eyes and resting against the top of her head as she smiled and continued reading.

* * *

Christine woke much later. It was dark, and she quickly realized that she must have fallen asleep while reading… the book had fallen to the floor, and she was curled up against Erik's chest. As comfortable as she was, she knew she ought to get up and return to the couch… after another few minutes of struggling to keep his heartbeat from lulling her back to sleep, she started to get up. 

"Awfully dark for morning, isn't it?" Erik asked suddenly, raising his head to look at her.

"I'm sorry, did I wake you?"

"Not really, no," he said, rubbing at his eyes with one hand. "Is something wrong?"

"No – I was just going back to the couch. I shouldn't have fallen asleep here… you can go back to sleep, it's fine."

Erik didn't go back to sleep, nor did he allow her to get up. Instead, he propped himself up on his elbow, stretching a little.

"I feel guilty… taking up your bed. If you'd rather, I could sleep on the sofa tonight…"

"Of course not! Erik, you're injured…"

"I'm _fine_," he interrupted.

"… and in any case, you're much too tall to fit on that tiny little thing. If it's hard for me, it'd be impossible for you," Christine added, smiling.

"True…" he said, trailing off, although Christine could tell that he still felt very guilty.

"Don't, Erik, it's not any trouble…"

"You just told me that it was hard to fit on the couch," he pointed out. Christine grinned sheepishly. "Just go back to sleep, there's nothing wrong with that…"

Christine could see plenty of things that someone else might find "wrong" with it, but it was late… and she would be much more comfortable here…

"Oh, all right," she said, giving in and flopping back down onto the pillow. "On one condition – you do the same."

"Of course, _mon ange_," Erik said with a smile, settling back down as she nestled closer to him.

It wasn't long before Christine slipped off back to sleep. Erik slipped his arm around her and kissed the top of her head gently.

"_Bonne nuit, mon amour_," he whispered into her hair before sleep reclaimed him as well.

* * *

A/N: The book Christine is reading is Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice," written in 1813. It's really quite a good book; I just finished it. And now I have to do a research paper on it... oh boy. 

I meant to mention this in the last chapter, but I forgot, and it has some bearing here as well: Pyjamas (or pajamas if you're American (like me) and don't feel like facing the wrath of your word processor's spell check to go with the cooler-sounding spelling (unlike me)): in this sense consist of a jacket and trouser combination, made of a lightweight non-stretch material, similar to materials used in bed sheets, with the jacket closing down the front with buttons. These first appeared in Britain as a result of British colonial presence in South Asia in the 18th and 19th centuries, and by the early 20th century had replaced nightshirts as the dominant style of sleepwear for men and boys there.

Right. There you are - the history of drawstring pyjama bottoms, courtesy of Wikipedia.

Oh, and chapter 4 of "Dell'amore Non Si Sa" will probably be up tomorrow or Sunday. I've got it all planned out.

As always, please let me know what you think, and thanks for reading! --Kyrie


	37. Normalcy

A/N: Whew. What a long week!!! I'm so glad it's Friday!

Thanks very much to The Phangirl, Kathryn Glover, ladyAlyafaelyn, -Green-Clown, HDKingsbury, Anges Radieux, Luckii.Jinx, Nyasia A. Maire, phantom-jedi1, and Lucia Sasaki for their reviews, as well as Jenny for her email. Thanks guys, you're all wonderful people! Something tells me you'll like this chapter as well... I'm getting very fluffy now that the conflict's over...

And so, without further ado, cue fluff!

* * *

Chapter 37: Normalcy 

_16th February 1882_

For the second time in his life, Erik woke to find Christine still asleep beside him. For a few minutes, he simply pulled her closer, relishing in her proximity, the feel and soft sound of her rhythmic breathing. She was curled up against his chest like a cat, with her head tucked between his neck and his shoulder, and even in her sleep she was smiling contentedly. He decided that there was nothing better than the feeling of waking up to find her there…

And he realized that soon enough, mornings like this would become an everyday occurrence.

Smiling, he leaned over and gently kissed her cheek, then propped himself up into a sitting position, yawning. A moment later, he felt Christine stir and he turned to look at her.

"Good morning," he said, smiling.

Christine mirrored his smile when she saw that he had not yet put his mask on. It was so much easier to read his emotions when he didn't cover half of his face…

"Good morning, Erik," she echoed, starting to get up, but he leaned down over her.

"More comfortable than the sofa?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

"Most definitely," she said, unable to keep the grin off her face, reaching up to touch the right side of his face.

Erik suddenly closed the small gap between them and kissed her passionately. Christine pulled away only when she realized how completely and utterly improper the whole situation was. Her cheeks slightly pink, she sat up, brushing her hair back behind her ear and avoiding Erik's eyes.

Erik wrapped his arms around her from behind, holding her close so that her back was pressed against his chest. He knew exactly what she was thinking… and while he had no choice but to agree with her…

"Propriety be damned," he whispered into her ear, then bent his head and softly pressed his lips to her neck.

Christine's breath caught as she turned to look at him.

"I'm glad you're feeling better," she said, unable to control a short laugh.

* * *

That afternoon, the two were sitting together in Christine's front room when there was a knock at the door. Puzzled, Christine got up; she hadn't been expecting anyone to come today…

She was immensely surprised to find both Meg and Carlos behind the door.

"Hello!" she said cheerily. "Madame Giry let you both go at once?"

Meg laughed as she and Carlos stepped inside.

"Yes, it is a bit odd of maman, isn't it? But I've been begging her for this almost nonstop for the past few days… I think she let us come just to keep me quiet."

Christine laughed, and then felt, rather than heard, Erik come up behind her.

"Hello, Erik!" Meg said in that uncannily chipper manner of hers. Erik could not help but smile.

"_Bonjour_, Mademoiselle Giry, Monsieur Sanchez," he said, turning to Carlos. "I… don't believe we have been properly introduced, Monsieur. Erik Renoir," he added, tentatively holding his hand out.

Carlos paused for a second, then shook Erik's hand.

"Carlos," he replied, the wary smile he'd worn a moment before gone, replaced with a genuine one.

Christine grinned at them both.

"So, have we missed anything exciting?" Christine asked as the four of them sat down, she and Erik on the sofa, Meg and Carlos pulling up chairs.

"Genevieve came back to rehearsal yesterday," Meg said immediately.

"Oh, good, she's all right!"

"Did she… say anything about what happened to her?" Erik asked cautiously.

Meg nodded. "The poor girl… she was questioned almost mercilessly by the rest of the _corps_… but she didn't see who it was. The man who attacked her came up from behind her."

"Naturally," Erik sighed. "So everyone still thinks it was me, then."

"I'm afraid so," Carlos replied. "Although I think Christine's comments managed to put at least a little doubt into some of their minds, most don't believe it."

Christine nodded sadly, wishing that she had been able to do more to help… she _should _have done something more, perhaps Erik might never have been attacked if only she could have thought of some way…

"I'm sorry, Erik…" she said softly.

"Christine, there's nothing to forgive. You did what you could… you saved my life."

"You would never have needed saving if I had only…"

"I doubt you would have been able to talk anyone out of anything, Christine," Meg commented. "We've all been hearing horrible stories about the Phantom for so long – no offense, Erik – that I don't think anyone would have believed you."

"Still, I should have tried…"

"Christine, don't you remember what Buquet said to you? He told you he'd 'deal with you later.' If you had done anything else, you wouldn't have been able to help Erik at all, because you would have been right beside him," Carlos pointed out.

After a long moment of taut silence, Christine nodded again and changed the subject.

"Have they found a replacement for me yet?"

"Not a permanent one; they keep switching between all the sopranos in the chorus and the smaller roles, but they can't seem to find one that could even begin to hold her own against you."

Christine laughed. "I'm not there anymore, Meg, why would that matter?"

"You'd be surprised how much the patrons remember, Christine. The first few nights after you'd gone, there were a great deal of loudly disappointed audience members. I still occasionally catch something about it being a pity that Christine Daaé disappeared, since she was so phenomenal…" Carlos said, grinning.

"Well, they'll just have to go on looking for another prima donna," Christine said in an unusually stubborn, almost haughty tone of voice that reduced everyone present into a fit of laughter.

Meg and Carlos stayed until they had only two hours left before the performance that night. As the two of them bid Erik and Christine goodbye, Christine pulled Meg aside for a moment and whispered something in her best friend's ear. Erik, who was holding the door open, was rather surprised when Meg squealed happily and gave Christine a crushing hug.

"Oh, Christine, that's so wonderful! What did you say?!"

"What do you think I said?" Christine said, beaming, when Meg finally released her enough to breathe, let alone speak. "I said yes, of course!"

For a moment the two of them just stood grinning at each other, lost for words, until Meg realized that she and Carlos really had to hurry back.

"I'm so happy for you, Christine, for both of you!" Meg said, then noticed Carlos' slightly confused frown. "Oh, I'll tell you on the way back. We'll be back soon, Christine, Erik. Come on, Carlos, let's go."

"Oh! And Meg, could you do me a favor and ask your mother to come on Sunday? There's something I could use her help with," Christine called after her.

Meg nodded and waved, then practically dragged Carlos through the hallway and down the stairs. Christine had to laugh – poor Carlos.

"What on earth did you tell her?" Erik asked when he had closed the door, although he had a pretty good idea.

"That you proposed to me," Christine said, still smiling almost uncontrollably.

"Hardly," Erik said with a laugh.

"Yes, well, Meg doesn't have to know that, does she?"

* * *

_19th February 1882_

"What was it that you wanted Adele's help with today?" Erik asked on Sunday morning.

"I told you that I'd go back to your house on the lake and bring a few things back here, so you won't have to wear those pyjamas all the time," Christine said, not looking up from her sewing. She had stepped on the hem of her skirt the other day, and the fabric was so well-worn that it had torn. "I was thinking that I might need some help carrying some of it."

"I could help you…"

"And I dare say you'd fancy traveling across Paris in pyjamas and socks," Christine joked, looking up for a moment.

"True enough," Erik said with a smile, and Christine returned her attention to her mending once more.

"You'll be all right, going back to the Opera?"

"I'll be fine," Christine replied, not oblivious to the worry that crept into his voice. "I'll only be in your house; if it makes you feel better, I promise I won't go any further than that."

Erik smiled at her, watching her hands move in silence until, about fifteen minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Christine put aside the skirt and picked up two large carpet bags that she had been lucky enough to find at the very back of her closet the night before.

"I won't be gone too long…" she said, turning back to Erik. "I hope it won't be too dull…"

"I'll keep myself amused, don't worry."

"Would you like me to bring anything in particular?" she asked.

"Surprise me," he replied, grinning.

Christine smiled at him and stepped out the door to greet Madame Giry.

A half hour later, the two of them were looking through Erik's house for things he might like them to bring back. To the small pile of clothes Madame Giry had neatly folded into one of the bags, Christine added Erik's thick black cloak and his fedora hat.

"What else do you think he would like?"

"You know him best, Christine; what do you think?"

It didn't take long for Christine to head into the music room. She found his violin waiting just where he had last placed it, on top of the piano, and carefully slipped it and the bow back into the case before turning her attention to the piles and piles of music surrounding her. Finally, she chose two songs that were near the tops of the piles and she remembered him playing for her, as well as a handful of blank manuscript paper, all of which she added to the little stack of things to be relocated.

"Could you have left anything important here, Christine?" Madame Giry asked, showing that she was fully aware of how much time Christine had already spent solely in Erik's company.

Smiling a little sheepishly, Christine retreated to her room to look. She discovered that her bag was still sitting on the little desk, containing the spare keys to her flat and her dressing room, the libretto of _Rigoletto_… and the book of songs that Erik had given her for Christmas. She quickly located the music box in his library and put that into her bag as well.

"I think that's everything for now… thank you for your help, Madame Giry," Christine said as they packed everything neatly into the carpet bags.

"It's no trouble, Christine. I did want the chance to speak to you; Meg tells me that Erik has asked you to marry him."

"He did," Christine replied, a smile immediately breaking out on her face. "Well, in a sense… the ring fell out of his pocket when he was injured."

Madame Giry laughed, giving her old pupil a rare hug.

"Congratulations, Christine," she said softly. "He loves you so much, you know."

"I know," Christine replied, still beaming. "Madame… I was wondering…"

"Yes, Christine?" Madame Giry prodded, raising one eyebrow but still smiling widely.

"What exactly did you say to Erik the last time you saw him? When you wouldn't let me hear as well?"

"Ah yes. That. I simply reminded him that your current circumstances might be a tad awkward for him when he was… feeling better."

Christine looked puzzled for a moment, then realization of Adele's rather vague point dawned and she blushed slightly.

"Madame, I thought you'd realized that I've spent nearly all my time here, in his house, for the past few months? Erik would never do anything like that… he's always the perfect gentleman with me."

"Always?" Adele responded, giving Christine a knowing sort of smile.

Christine's blush deepened until her cheeks were nearly crimson; she couldn't help it. Madame Giry smiled.

"Just as I thought."

* * *

Later that evening, Erik opened the door to Christine's bedroom and returned to the front room of her flat, immensely glad to be wearing his own clothes again. Christine smiled as the Erik she truly knew walked towards her; he was clad once again in his usual black dress clothes, and his confident air seemed to have returned with his suit.

"Hello, Erik! Where have you been?" Christine joked.

Erik smiled down at her.

"Thank you for bringing my violin as well… that was very thoughtful of you."

"You're welcome, Erik. I had a feeling that things were getting a little bit too quiet for you," Christine replied.

They passed a few minutes in silence before Christine spoke again.

"Erik, I was wondering… are you perhaps feeling up to a walk?"

"Outside?" Erik asked, slightly taken aback.

"Yes, Erik, outside. There's very little room to do any walking in here."

"Well, I'm certainly 'feeling up to it,' but…"

"Oh, Erik, it's evening, no one will pay any attention to us! You'll find that people on the streets are almost always much more concerned with their own affairs than those of the people passing by. And I know you must be tired at staring at these same four walls all day long… please?"

"Oh, all right," Erik said, giving in more easily than Christine would have expected, and she gave him a kiss on the cheek before retreating into her room to collect their cloaks and his hat.

The moon was just beginning to rise, but the gas lamps lit the streets and it was not in any way too dark for an evening stroll. The air was unusually warm for February, and all signs pointed to an early spring. Erik walked alongside Christine in silence, instinctively wary, until she reached out suddenly and slipped her hand into his. He turned and smiled softly at her, wordlessly thanking her.

As they began chatting nonchalantly and he started to relax as he reminded himself of what Christine had said, that no one would stop to pay attention to anyone else, Erik slowly realized that she had been right, that there was no one stopping or turning to stare at him. True, there weren't that many other people out walking, but the concept of two people walking through Paris the way he and Christine were was so mundane a concept that no one gave them a second glance.

_So this_, Erik thought, _is what it feels like to lead a normal life_…

He smiled at that and slipped his arm around Christine's waist as they turned to head back to her flat.

* * *

A/N: So, what did you think? Questions? Comments? Concerns? Crits? Please let me know!

Also, some of you may have heard that Andrew Lloyd Webber is most definitely writing a sequel to "The Phantom of the Opera" based on Frederick Forsyth's "The Phantom of Manhattan." I, for one, consider that to be more or less akin to blasphemy. If anyone else feels that way, please let me know in your review or send me a message - crazy as it may sound, I'm compiling a petition. Hey, somebody needs to set him straight!

As always, please review, and thanks for reading! --Kyrie


	38. A Visit

A/N: Hello all! Happy Friday! I had a half-day today, which was great! _Pride and Prejudice _and a nap... great way to spend an afternoon, I can tell you! ;)

Thanks very much to everyone who reviewed: laal ratty, -Green-Clown, StakeMeSpike, Nyasia A. Maire, ladyAlyafaelyn, Anges Radieux, Zoe, phantom-jedi1, flamethrowerqueen, HDKingsbury, and Timorth. Huzzah for reviews!

I hope you enjoy this chapter... it was certainly an annoying little bugger. This was when my oh-dear-God-this-story-is-almost-over-how- the-heck-am-I-going-to-end-it? writer's block/panic started to set in. As usual. I think it turned out well, though, and the lovely betas approve. I hope you like it too!

* * *

Chapter 38: A Visit

_20th February 1882_

Christine carefully rolled over on the narrow couch, burrowing her head deeper into the pillow and hunching her shoulders under her blanket. Despite everything she had tried, sleep continued to evade her, and now it was so late that the moon had fully risen and there was a pool of annoyingly bright light in her eyes no matter which way she turned.

Why was it so difficult for her to sleep all of a sudden? For the past few days she hadn't been drifting off as easily as she was accustomed to… in fact, the last time she had gotten a truly decent night's sleep was the night she had fallen asleep while reading curled up against Erik…

The implications of this thought had her sitting straight up in a heartbeat. She sat very straight, her whole body suddenly tense, and she felt her cheeks turn redder by the second.

_Stop it, Christine, stop that! _she thought fervently. She pressed her hands into her face, frightened and shocked by everything she had been feeling of late. Wrapping her blanket more tightly around her thin shoulders, she sighed softly. Erik wasn't the world's heaviest sleeper by any stretch of the term, and she didn't want to wake him.

Subconsciously, her eyes drifted to her closed bedroom door. It had always been so comforting to know that Erik was nearby… now was no different. Sighing again, Christine got to her feet and walked quietly over to the utilitarian little kitchen on the other side of the room and poured some water into the teakettle. She pulled a chair up close to the stove, huddling into the warmth of the gas burner. Her head drooped and her eyes closed, and she began, very quietly, humming sleepily to herself, smiling when she realized that it was a lullaby Erik had once sung to her when she had been tired and upset.

_Sleep my child and peace attend thee_

_All through the night_

_Guardian angels God will send thee_

_All through the night_…

She hardly realized that she was falling asleep in her chair until the teakettle whistled loudly. Her eyes snapped open and she jumped, upsetting the spindly wooden chair. It crashed to the ground as she sprang to her feet, thoroughly startled. She quickly turned off the burner, muttering angrily under her breath. There was no way that Erik had slept through all that noise. She'd probably even woken her neighbors!

Sure enough, Erik poked his head around the doorframe in only a few moments, looking worried.

"Christine?" he asked softly, looking around the room for her once he'd seen she was not on the couch.

"I'm here, Erik," she said a little sheepishly, pulling the blanket more securely around her in an attempt at modesty.

"Are you all right?" Christine noted the edge of worry in his voice as he strode hurriedly over to her. "What are you doing up at this hour of the night?"

"I… I couldn't sleep," she answered shortly, staring resolutely at the ground, suddenly feeling very flustered and thoroughly embarrassed. She felt like a silly child, caught in the middle of the night, in her nightgown, making a great deal of noise and getting into trouble for it. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"Don't be; I'm just glad nothing's happened to you," Erik said gently.

"I'm fine… just a little out of sorts, I suppose."

He nodded silently, then bent down and righted the chair she had knocked over.

"Thank you," she said. "Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked, reaching carefully up into one of the cabinets for two teacups, afraid she might knock over something _else_.

The two of them sat together in silence until the tea had finally disappeared and Christine's head slowly began to droop onto Erik's shoulder. Sleepily, she looked up at him and realized suddenly that he had not thought to put on his mask. With a soft smile, she reached out and gently touched the right side of his face with her fingertips. She heard him sigh softly, felt him lean into her caress, and allowed her hand and her head to fall back onto his shoulder.

It wasn't long before she was almost fast asleep. Careful not to wake her, Erik lifted her easily in his arms and carried her back into her own bedroom. He didn't have any problem with sleeping on the floor, and he knew she needed the rest.

Christine raised her head a little as he pushed the door farther open, looking up at him sleepily.

"I'm taking you into your room, _mon ange_. You need a good night's sleep for a change, and you're not going to get it on that tiny couch."

Too tired to protest, she simply nodded and nestled her head against his chest once more. Erik smiled, then put her down on her bed, pulling the comforter over her and taking the spare blanket at the foot of the bed for himself.

"Good night, Erik," he heard her murmur, and he grinned again.

* * *

_24th February 1882 _

There was a book lying open in her hands, but Christine wasn't paying any attention to the words in it that afternoon. Instead, she was watching Erik as he scribbled little black notes onto the small pile of blank manuscript paper she had brought from the Opera for him. It was completely mind-boggling that he could compose without any sort of instrument to guide him.

"You could take out your violin, Erik," she said suddenly.

"I don't want to disturb your neighbors," he answered shortly, so caught up in the melody that he didn't immediately look up at her.

"They would complain about anyone else's playing. You, however, I think they would applaud."

He looked up at that.

"What you've told me of your neighbors is that they are all rather arrogant and stiff, not at all the type to enjoy music."

"No one's ever heard anything like your music, Erik. The most hardened criminal would weep at your songs if you wanted them to."

Erik smiled, but Christine had seen him smile at her that way before, and she shook her head.

"You don't believe me, do you?" she said softly, then got up and disappeared into her bedroom for a moment.

Erik was a little worried that he had offended her until she came back carrying his violin.

"Would you please play something for me, Erik? I've missed your music so much since we left the opera…" she asked, setting the worn black case on the table in front of him and pulling a chair up to sit close beside him.

He smiled softly and gently brushed his fingers across her cheek.

"Of course, Christine," he answered, then turned away from her, opened the case, and began to tune his violin.

Having sat idle for so long, the instrument was so off pitch that he nearly winced when he first tested the strings. He stood up, tucking the violin under his chin and carefully turning the ivory pegs until the pitches matched his standard of perfection.

For a moment, however, he stood still, not playing anything. Surely Christine could not be right about his music… he knew it had power, but that much? Impossible…

He suddenly felt her slip her hand into his and lean against his shoulder; he hadn't even noticed she'd gotten up. This simple gesture meant more to him than he could ever possibly convey to her. How could she understand all his doubts and fears so well, know just when to speak and what to say? She truly was an angel.

"I'll sing with you if you'd like," she said, looking up at him.

He shook his head, but smiled, then carefully positioned the bow and began.

The moment he began to play, Christine smiled widely and pressed her face into his shoulder. The soft, floating melody of his 'night music' wove gently through the air, and Christine fondly remembered the first time he had sung it for her, on that wonderful Christmas evening…

When Erik finished, he let the last note fade slowly away before lowering his bow and wrapping his arm around Christine's waist.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "And – what did I tell you? – not a single catcall. You would put Mozart to shame."

She grinned up at him, and he could not help but return it. He put his bow and violin down gently on the kitchen table beside them, and softly brushed the backs of his fingertips across her cheek.

Suddenly Christine's smile wavered, and she buried her face in his shoulder, sliding her arms around his neck and holding him tightly.

"Christine? What's wrong?"

"I haven't heard you play since you were… injured…" she whispered shakily. "God, I… I'm sorry, Erik… but to think I might have lost you…"

Erik was silent for a long moment, simply wrapping his arms around her comfortingly.

"That was nearly a month ago… I'm fine now," he finally replied.

"I know, but… just don't ever scare me like that again, all right?" she asked, looking up and smiling a little sheepishly at him.

"I'll try," he said, returning her smile. He never could have imagined in his wildest dreams that anyone would care so much about him…

Christine slipped out of his embrace, feeling a little silly, but then, his music had always had this sort of power over her… She walked over to the table and picked up her book, intending to put it away, but it was forgotten immediately when Erik spoke again.

"Would you like to take a walk with me, Mademoiselle?"

Christine turned back to face him, looking immensely surprised.

"A walk? Outside, in the middle of the afternoon?"

"Yes, well, there's very little room to do any walking in here," he answered with a grin, echoing her words.

Beaming, Christine threw her arms around him for a moment, knowing that he was doing this to make her happy, and, pulling her cloak from the back of a chair, swung it around her shoulders.

A few minutes later, Christine opened the door of her flat, still beaming, and, after waiting for Erik to step out after her, was about to close and lock the door behind them when she heard footsteps on the staircase. She straightened up, puzzled, wondering if it was Meg or Carlos, or perhaps just another boarder, but someone entirely unexpected came into view at the top of the stairs.

"Raoul?" Christine asked, more than a little surprised. "How nice to see you! What brings you here?"

"I'm sorry, have I come at a bad time?" he asked quickly.

"Ah…" Christine began, wondering whether it would be rude to say that Erik had actually brought up the idea of going on a walk and she didn't want to miss the opportunity, but he filled in for her.

"Not at all," he said, his tone coolly polite, then turned and whispered to Christine "Another day, I promise you."

"Good afternoon, monsieur. It's nice to see you on your feet again. I really ought to have come round sooner, I suppose, but… something always held me back." At this, he turned to look at Christine and smiled a little awkwardly.

Taken aback and a bit puzzled, Christine could only stare for a moment, but then she remembered that they were standing in the middle of the hallway.

"Do come in, Raoul… would you like a cup of tea?"

"Thank you," he replied, nodding.

Erik opened the door and stepped inside, holding it open for Christine and the Vicomte. He wondered why the boy had suddenly reappeared, and what had kept him from visiting Christine before now…

The moment the door was closed, an awkward silence fell between the three of them. Christine fumbled with the buckle on her cloak before removing it and folding it over the back of a chair again.

"Please… sit down… I'll go make that tea," she said, then turned into her little kitchen and began pulling teacups out of a cabinet.

Erik and Raoul sat, but neither said anything for a long moment. Finally Raoul chuckled slightly.

"Forgive me, monsieur, but I'm afraid I know so little of you that I can't seem to find an agreeable topic of conversation."

Erik nodded, although he too wasn't sure what to say.

"I suppose I ought to begin by offering my congratulations," Raoul continued, still tentatively. He nodded in Christine's direction before continuing, careful not to speak overly loud; for some reason, he did not want her to hear this conversation, though he knew it was more or less inevitable. "You are engaged, correct?"

Erik nodded slowly.

"I would not have thought Christine had the occasion to tell you," he said.

"She hasn't; I merely saw the ring on her finger while she was caring for you, and I assumed…"

"You were there that night, then?" he asked dully, wishing he didn't know so little of what had happened to him, but neither he nor Christine had really wanted to bring it up any more than absolutely necessary.

"Yes. Christine asked me to help her get you out of the Opera."

"Thank you," Erik said sincerely, but Raoul waved it off.

"It was the least I could do for an old friend; I could see how much she cared about you." Erik stiffened ever so slightly at his words; was there the tiniest hint of regret in the young man's words, or was he imagining it? He decided that it was best not to make an enemy out of one of Christine's friends, however, and turned the conversation.

"How did you meet Christine?"

"It was years ago, when we were children," Raoul began with a laugh. "It was quite idiotic of me, really – she was walking on the beach in Brittany with her father, and her scarf blew into the water… I rescued it for her, and we spent the entire summer together after that."

Erik had to chuckle.

"I only saw her twice after that summer, and the visits were short… and then I suddenly find that she's performing in the Paris Opera! She had always dreamed of performing, I believe, but… and you, monsieur? How did you come to know her?"

"Under _very _unusual circumstances, I assure you," Erik replied. "And please, my name is Erik."

Raoul nodded just as Christine, who had been listening to their conversation while preparing the tea, her cheeks slightly pink from finding _herself _the topic of their discussion, appeared with a tea tray. The rest of the afternoon, after its slightly uncomfortable start, was spent in very pleasant conversation.

That night, before curling up on the couch again, Christine poked at the fire in the tiny wood burning stove in her kitchen. It promised to be a cold night; the temperature had dropped considerably by the time that Raoul had left. For a few minutes, she knelt in front of the stove, the little door in the side still open, watching the flames and glad of the warmth. She didn't even hear Erik come up behind her, had no idea he was there until she felt his hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, this afternoon must have been awkward for you," she said quietly, turning her head to look up at him.

He shook his head, however, and Christine smiled.

"I'm glad you're realizing that there are people in this world who will accept you," she added, nestling into his shoulder.

"Thanks to you," he said truthfully.

"That means we'll go on that walk you promised me tomorrow, right?" Christine replied with a laugh.

* * *

A/N: A little more normalcy for Erik... yay!

A big thank you to everyone who said I could add their name to the petition! Although I have only 14 names at present... please, anybody who thinks that a sequel to Phantom is a BAD IDEA, let me know and I'll add your name as well!

Thanks very much for reading, and please let me know what you think! --Kyrie


	39. Thunderstorms and Plans

A/N: Hello all! For those of you who care, happy Easter. And for those who don't, just happy Friday!

Thanks to laal ratty, phantom-jedi1, ladyAlyafaelyn, LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath, flamethrowerqueen, Nyasia A. Maire, Timorth, phantomlvr, Luckii.Jinx, -Green-Clown, and The Phangirl for their reviews!

And so, without further ado, chapter 39!

* * *

Chapter 39: Thunderstorms and Plans

_25th February 1882_

Christine did not get the walk she was promised the next day, as the cold, dreary weather of the evening turned into rain and fierce wind, and by the afternoon became a full-blown thunderstorm.

"Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?" she joked as she folded up her blanket and tucked it onto the edge of the couch again, the sound of the rain lashing against the windows very loud.

"Positively charming," Erik replied, although he was concentrating less on the rain and more on the fact that he was still intruding in her home, that she was still sleeping on the couch so that he might be more comfortable.

When he didn't laugh as much as she had expected him to, and she noticed that his gaze was constantly flicking to the small folded pile of blanket she'd slid more or less out of sight, she shook her head with a sigh.

"Are you still worried about that? It's no trouble, Erik, really."

"You seem to be missing my point…"

"Yes, this is my home, but as long as we're staying here it's yours as well. It doesn't bother me, I promise you."

"As long as we stay here?" Erik repeated curiously.

"I did assume that we wouldn't be spending the rest of our lives in this tiny little apartment. It can get crowded easily, doesn't it?" she joked, although she subconsciously began to twist her engagement ring around her finger.

Erik could not help but smile at that.

"Where do you plan on going now?" Erik asked suddenly.

"Me? Erik, I would have thought that was obvious… I'm going wherever you are, remember?"

"That… did cross my mind, yes," he replied with a smirk, "but we haven't talked much at all about where we are to go from here…"

"Yes, you're right; I know next to nothing about planning this sort of thing… I'll have to ask Madame Giry the next time I see her…"

"I know even less than you, my dear, so I'm afraid I won't be of much help."

Christine smiled and, seeing that for some reason he was getting uncomfortable with the conversation, she changed the subject slightly.

"So, where do you intend to go now?"  
"I haven't given it much thought…"

"Surely you've seen some fascinating places from what little you've told me of your travels."

"Most of it… most doesn't hold very pleasant memories," he replied stiffly.

"Well, there's the few that do," Christine said cheerily.

Erik was not to be cheered, though. He had just realized something, had just realized that he would like to leave Paris behind, and that no matter where he went, fear would follow. Would Christine be safe with him…? _Damn_, what was he doing…?

"You are determined to be with me no matter where we went?"

"Of course," Christine replied, a little concern at his strange tone of voice.

"Even if it meant leaving Paris? Perhaps leaving France, even?"

"Yes, Erik, I would. I'll miss Meg and Madame Giry of course, but… Erik?"

Erik had looked away suddenly, his fingers curling together and his shoulders tensing.

"I can't do this to you, Christine, I can't condemn you to the kind of life I've lived… I can't simply tear you away from everything…"

"I was just going to say that I could write to the Girys, and we could always visit… Erik, please don't…"

"I've taken everything from you, haven't I? First your reputation at the Opera, then your position, now your friends? I… I'm so sorry, Christine… I should never have…"

"Don't say that," Christine whispered, sounding hurt.

"It's the truth," he said stiffly, still unable to look at her.

"Erik…"

Christine reached up and gently turned his head so that he had to look at her, placing her hands on either side of his face. Unable to think of anything she could say, she simply stretched up onto her toes and kissed him. Erik wrapped his arms around her waist, crushing her to him desperately. The burning intensity they both put forth left them feeling almost lightheaded, but it wasn't until he released her at last that Erik realized that Christine had tears coursing down her cheeks.

"Don't ever talk like that, Erik," she said, putting as much steel into her words as possible, but failing to sound anything other than upset. "Don't ever, ever say that it would have been better… that _I_ would have been happier had we never met. That's not true; you know it's not true! I love you – I always will… Things can change, Erik… you're not alone anymore."

Erik tried to turn away, if possible feeling even guiltier now.

"Christine, I…" he began, but she stopped him.

"No. You deserve this, Erik; everyone deserves love. Even you. _Especially _you."

Speechless, Erik wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly. After what seemed a long time, they began talking again, the conversation drifting backwards to pick up just before they had faced those fears and insecurities. Erik told Christine stories of his travels and of places that he would enjoy revisiting.

"Is there anywhere you haven't been, Erik?" Christine teased.

"London," he replied simply. "I've traveled over a great deal of the continent, but I've never been overseas."

"Well, we shall have to make a point of going, then!"

Outside, a thunderclap resounded loudly, followed instantly by a bright flash of lightning. Rain drummed heavily against the windows, and Christine nestled closer to Erik, exceedingly glad that they were both warm and dry inside. He tightened his arms around her, holding her so close that he could feel her breathing.

"Erik?" Christine asked, lifting her head and turning to look up at him.

"Hmmm?" he replied, meeting her eyes.

The moment he did so, however, whatever Christine had planned to ask immediately left her head. His face was so close to hers, barely two inches away, and his dark eyes were completely and utterly captivating… Her breath caught as she felt his hand settle on her waist, drift lazily upwards… but before she could tear her eyes away or try and calm her racing heart, Erik closed the gap between them and fervently kissed her again. For a moment, he remembered what had happened after the masquerade, and suddenly he had to fight very hard to control himself…

At last Christine pulled away, her cheeks burning. Feeling dizzy, she let her head flop back onto his shoulder and squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for her shallow gasps to even out and the world to stop spinning…

Although just as breathless, Erik could not help but laugh inwardly. _The sooner she talks to Adele about the wedding, the better_, he thought.

* * *

_26th February 1882_

"I thought post didn't come on Sundays," Erik asked as Christine headed for the door.

"It doesn't," she replied, turning back to look at him, "but I forgot to look yesterday. I was… otherwise engaged."

Erik chuckled, unable to hold back a silly grin.

"What? Talking to you is extremely engaging," Christine said, pretending to be affronted, and turned and headed downstairs to the post-boxes.

When she returned, she was carrying two letters, shaking her head at the envelope on top.

"Why on earth would he still be after me?" she muttered to herself.

"What?" Erik asked, startled, but he received no answer for several moments, as Christine opened the letter and read through it before handing it to him with a laugh.

"It's quite absurd, really. I saw the address and assumed it was from Lefévre, but it's not. A Monsieur Gérard Duval sent it; apparently he is to take on the daunting task of Opera manager and is asking me to come back. Who would have thought that they'd go through this much trouble over one soprano?"

Erik was silent; he merely scanned through the letter as Christine opened and read her other mail. He could name quite a few reasons to go through a lot of trouble for 'one soprano.'

"Meg says hello, Erik," Christine said, looking up from what seemed to be a very long letter. "Oh! And she also says that we are invited over to their apartment this afternoon… What do you think?"

"Just the Girys, then?" Erik asked.

"Well, Carlos might be there, perhaps, but…"

"If you would like to go, then by all means, we will."

Christine grinned at him.

"Thank you, Erik. This way I'll get a chance to talk to Madame. And perhaps, since it's such a nice day, we could walk over later?" she added, smiling hopefully.

Erik could only smile and give in quickly – he had promised her, after all.

* * *

"Christine! Hello! It's been _ages _since I've seen you! Oh, and hello, Erik!"

"Hello to you too, Meg," Christine said when her friend had finally released her. "It's only been a week, you know."

"Well, yes, but it can get very dull at the Opera without you there," she added.

"Thank you, Meg, I feel very appreciated," another voice said from behind the door; a moment later, Carlos stepped into view, with Madame Giry behind him.

"Good afternoon Monsieur Sanchez, Adele," Erik said, realizing that he'd rarely been in the company of this many people at once. He stiffened a little at the thought, but forced himself to stay as relaxed as possible. These were Christine's friends; good people.

"Come in, both of you," Adele said, gently pulling her daughter out of the doorway so Erik and Christine could come inside. "I daresay there's a great deal to talk about," she added with a knowing smile.

As Meg immediately began to chatter incessantly to Christine and Carlos, Erik started to wish that he had stayed behind and let Christine enjoy her friends' company on her own. He couldn't very well leave now, though… Suddenly, Christine turned the conversation to a topic that he could join in on.

"I hear that a new manager has been found," she said.

Madame Giry scowled at once.

"Oh, yes, Monsieur Duval. He won't last three months," she said matter-of-factly.

"Really?" Erik asked, curious. "What makes you say that?"

"He's an idiot," Meg sniffed.

"Aren't they all, Meg?" Carlos added. "No, it's that he's as clumsy as a man can get without managing to kill himself. Supposedly, he did considerable damage to his last theatre by knocking over a gas lamp…"

"He couldn't have!" Christine said incredulously. "It could just be rumors… After all, you've known the man for how long, a week? He might not be what he seems…"

Carlos burst out laughing.

"You haven't seen the man, Christine, already he's stumbled right into the ballet line," he finally choked out, laughing all the harder when he saw the thoroughly _not _amused expression on Madame Giry's face. Meg joined him, giggling furiously at her mother's irritation.

"It was probably an accident. There are lots of things to trip over during a rehearsal, Carlos."

Carlos and Meg weren't really paying attention to her at that point, however, but Erik turned to look at her.

"You never cease to amaze me," he said softly, so quietly that she almost didn't hear him above Carlos and Meg's hilarity. "Can you find good in absolutely everyone?"

Christine smiled lovingly up at him, giving him a silent 'yes,' while answering a little differently out loud.

"Well, having been on the receiving end of some rather cruel rumors, I prefer to give everyone a chance."

Once Meg and Carlos had stopped laughing hysterically, the subject was changed to the next performance – a run of _Giselle_. Meg explained excitedly that she was Bathilde's understudy, and hoped to perhaps close the run as a principle.

"And what about you two?" Adele asked abruptly. "What do you plan to do? I daresay returning to the Opera is out of the question now."

Christine laughed.

"We were just talking about that yesterday… and we decided that we're rather in need of your help, Madame. Neither of us, well, have any idea about planning weddings."

"Of course I'll help you," Adele replied, smiling, although looking a little sad for just a moment…

Meg, however, was ecstatic. Erik could barely hold back the urge to shake his head with a sigh as Christine was suddenly bombarded with questions that she didn't yet know the answer to. For a moment, Carlos caught his attention, and the young man rolled his eyes in Meg's direction; Erik had to smile.

"Another time, Meg!" Christine finally cried, throwing her hands up. "I think we're boring Erik and Carlos."

"_Solamente un poco_," Carlos muttered sarcastically. Erik chuckled, but both of them refused to translate.

"Oh! Wait, Christine, just one more…" Meg said, asking the question quickly so that no one would cut her off. "Where are you going to live? I don't think there's enough space for both of you in your little apartment… would you go stay just outside of Paris?"

"Well, that one I do know the answer to. Erik and I thought we might travel a little bit, and perhaps… perhaps settle in London…"

"_London?_" Meg asked incredulously. "You're going to leave?"

Erik looked away, guilt rising in him again. _How can I do this to her? She has friends here_…_ I can't make her leave them_…

"I'll come back to see you, Meg, I wouldn't disappear," Christine said reassuringly. "And I can always write to you."

"But still…"

"Meg," Adele interrupted gently, "let's not get ahead of ourselves. Christine and Erik have a good deal to discuss together, it seems; fretting about it now won't do anyone any good." She turned suddenly to Erik and continued. "Although I hope you decide to publish some of your music, Erik; it seems a terrible waste of talent if there are only a handful that can ever hear it."

Erik looked up at her, surprised by this sudden reference to his music.

"We shall see, Adele, we shall see."

* * *

A/N: --winces-- So? What did you think? This chapter was absolutely, utterly EVIL to write... but I fixed the things my lovely betas told me to fix and I think it's better. Still, if there's anything awkward or - even worse - overly cliched that you can point out, _please_ do, and I'll try to fix it! These next few chapters might be a little difficult as well, so please bear with me. They're coming, I promise! --mutters curses about endings--

Thanks for reading! --Kyrie


	40. Boxes

A/N: Happy Friday, all! Thanks very much to HDKingsbury, -Green-Clown, Luckii.Jinx, StakeMeSpike04, draegon-fire, Timorth, Lucia Sasaki, laal ratty, phantom-jedi1, and ladyAlyafaelyn for reviewing! Glad you guys liked the last chapter. This one was far easier to write for some reason - I guess because I had finally decided on what was going on! I hope you enjoy it!

Chapter 40: Boxes

_4th March 1882 _

By the next Sunday, Erik and Christine had decided that it would be best if they left Paris shortly after they were married. With this in mind, and because Christine felt slightly guilty after Meg's reaction to their move, she asked the Girys if they would mind helping her pack up. Of course, they didn't.

Erik sat off to the side, puzzling over the best way to pack the contents of Christine's little bookshelf and not-so-little pile of librettos into the two cardboard boxes he had been allotted. Every so often he looked up and over to Christine, who was in the kitchen with Adele. They were talking about something, but they were far enough away and making enough noise that he couldn't pick it up. So instead he focused on Christine; she was talking animatedly with Madame Giry, carefully wrapping a glass in brown paper; a few of her curls fell into her eyes, and she was smiling. From his position, it seemed she was almost glowing with happiness. He shook his head suddenly to stop himself from staring, and intended to return to stacking the books until he noticed that the next volume he pulled from the shelf was _Pride and Prejudice_. He gave up and got to his feet, about to go over and ask what they were talking about.

Christine, however, had seen him get to his feet, and instead she left Madame Giry to the cabinets and joined him by the bookshelf.

"Gotten anywhere?" she asked with a laugh, looking down at the jumble of books on the floor and the sofa.

"I've gotten your librettos in there, anyway," he replied, smiling. "What were you and Adele talking about?"

"Nothing interesting," Christine replied, looking away for a moment.  
"Oh?" Erik said, bending down a little to catch her eye.

"Well… wedding plans, actually," she admitted.

"And why would I find that dull?" he said, gently tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "What have you two contrived?"

Christine was about to tell him when Meg, who had been charged with boxing up some of the things in Christine's closet, screamed rather loudly. Christine turned around just as her best friend came hurtling out the door, knocking straight into her. Meg was able to steady herself, but Christine fell backwards into Erik, who caught her but was caught off-balance himself, and the two of them toppled onto the sofa, which was luckily right behind them.

After a moment, she realized that they had stopped falling, and that she had not only landed in Erik's lap, but he had both arms tightly around her. Madame Giry just rolled her eyes, and Christine burst out laughing.

"Are you all right?" Erik asked, and Christine looked up at him.

"I'm fine, but then, I don't have anyone landing on top of me. Are _you_ all right?" she asked, still laughing.

Erik grinned at her, then let her go so that she could get to her feet.

"What on earth did you find in there, Meg?" she asked once they had gotten up.

"A really… really… _really _big spider," Meg replied, shuddering.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Meg," Madame Giry said exasperatedly. "Did you really need to make such a fuss? You could have just asked for someone else to kill it…"

"No, don't," Erik interrupted quickly. "I'll put it outside."

He vanished quickly, and in the ensuing quiet they could hear him looking around in the closet for it. After a moment, he called for Christine to open the door.

As he passed through the room, the spider caught in his cupped hands, Meg kept her eyes fixedly on the carpet. Christine stood by the door, holding it open, and Erik, making sure the spider didn't escape from his hands, marched out of the flat and down the stairs. The spider was gone when he returned a few minutes later.

"You can look up now, Meg," Christine said softly, worried at the blank expression on Erik's face.

"It would have been faster to just kill it, Erik. It's only a spider," Madame Giry pointed out.

"Yes, only a spider," he replied stiffly, not looking at her. "Only an ugly creature that has no right to live and frighten people."

Christine immediately understood his stony glare, and she took his hand comfortingly. After a moment, he turned and smiled at her.

* * *

"Erik?" Christine asked later that afternoon. "Would you mind if we left you here for a while?"

"What for?" he said, looking up from the last of the books. He'd finally gotten them all to fit.

"More wedding plans," she answered with a smirk.

"Then why am I to be left out?" Erik pretended to be deeply hurt, and turned to Adele. "Can't I come too?"

"Absolutely not, Monsieur Erik. For one thing, it's bad luck for the groom to see the bride in her dress before the wedding."

"Idiotic custom, if you ask me," he said in an undertone to Christine, who covered her mouth with her hand to hold back a laugh.

Madame Giry shook her head, although she was smiling.

"I won't be gone long, don't worry," Christine said as she pulled her cloak around her shoulders.

"And Maman won't force you to pack anything else up while we're gone," Meg added, making him chuckle.

"All right, all right, you win," he said, holding up his hands in defeat.

Christine echoed his smile and reached up to give him a kiss on the cheek. Before she could turn away, however, Erik caught her and briefly pressed his lips to hers.

"Erik!" she gasped when he released her, surprised.

For a moment, Meg's eyebrows looked like they might fly off her forehead, but then she grinned widely. Madame Giry was smiling as well, but voiced her disapproval.

"That is the other reason you're not coming."

More time passed than he had expected; six o'clock came and went, and still Christine did not reappear. Although he was getting worried, he was beginning to doze off on the sofa when he finally heard the door open. He did not get up at first as he watched her silhouette move into the kitchen, and for the first time that evening he realized he hadn't turned the lights on.

Christine placed the rectangular package she was carrying down onto her kitchen table and then swung her cloak off her shoulders, draping it over the back of a chair. When she had seen that all the lights were off, she had thought that perhaps Erik had gone off to run an errand of his own, but when she turned the gas on, she realized that he had just come up behind her. She jumped at his sudden appearance, but smiled up at him.

"You _could _have turned the lights on, you know," she teased.

"I forgot," he answered. "Any success?"

"Yes," she replied, lowering her eyes as a huge smile broke out across her face. "But Madame says I'm not allowed to tell you."

"You three enjoy keeping me in the dark, don't you?"

"She says I'm not allowed, but I'm going to anyway."

Erik smiled, then noticed the parcel on the table.

"What's in there?" he asked, curious.

"It's for you," she said, handing it to him, "so Madame most definitely won't be angry with me for showing you."

He carefully folded back the brown paper and lifted the lid of the box to reveal a smoky grey suit jacket, the silky lining a lighter dove grey. When he lifted it out, he found that a pair of matching trousers was folded neatly underneath.

"I hope it fits…" Christine said when he turned to look at her. "Would you try the jacket on?"

Obligingly, he shrugged off his customary black jacket and pulled on the grey one. Christine circled him, tugging at it here and there before announcing that she could alter it a little bit the next morning. Erik could not help but laugh at her attentions as he slipped the coat off and folded it once again.

"I can't imagine that that was all you went looking for today," he said as he turned around to face her again.

"No. We looked for a dress for me – and that I am keeping a surprise – and… do you know the little chapel Madame takes the ballet girls to every Sunday morning?"

"Yes," he said, cocking his head to one side curiously.

Christine laughed at his curiosity and slid her arms around his neck.

"Two weeks, _mon amour_," she said softly, smiling, and he put his arms around her waist and kissed her.

* * *

A/N: Cardboard: more specifically, corrugated fiberboard, was patented in 1856 and first used as a cushion of sorts for tall hats. By 1871, it had turned into valuable packing and shipping equipment, although Scottsman Robert Gair invented the corrugated box in 1842. 

As always, let me know what you think! Thanks for reading --Kyrie


	41. One Last Time

A/N: Happy Friday! And happy spring break!

Well, this is the second-to-last chapter...

Thanks to Anges Radieux, Lucia Sasaki, phantom-jedi1, The Phangirl, phantomlvr, LadyAlyaFaeLyn, ThankYouForTheMusic, Luckii.Jinx, and laal ratty for their reviews!

Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 41: One Last Time 

_8__th__ March 1882_

The sun had not yet fully risen when two quiet figures slipped through the early-morning mist enveloping the Rue Scribe side of the Paris Opera and, just as suddenly as they had appeared, they vanished once again.

Christine slipped her arm through Erik's once they entered the passage leading to his underground home, for though he seemed to be accustomed to finding his way in the dark, she could hardly see her hand in front of her face.

"How can you see where you're going?" she asked quietly, a little nervous.

"Years of practice," he replied with a laugh.

"This isn't something I'd like practicing… what if you'd fallen into the lake?" she asked, peering into the enveloping darkness.

"I meant before I ever came to Paris."

In only a few minutes, however, they had reached Erik's house on the lake and he turned on the gas lights, illuminating a month's accumulation of dust.

"Oh dear…" Christine said with a laugh when she saw the mess in the music room. "We have our work cut out for us, don't we?"

The two of them set to work quickly, sorting his things and putting them away as neatly as possible, packing some of them away, to make moving them to their new home, wherever that would be, easier later on. His music was the most frustrating part, as he had gotten into the habit over the years of simply tossing it into this pile or that, which meant that often they had to shuffle through various messy stacks strewn all across the floor for a missing page or two.

That was not the only reason that sorting the music was slow going.

"Christine… ah… please don't read that one, it isn't very good…"

"Nonsense," Christine said stubbornly, and, much to Erik's mortification, began to read through it.

After a moment, she blushed crimson and neatly added that song to its folder, the words still at the front of her mind:

_Past the point of no return - no backward glances:  
the games we've played till now are at an end _..._  
Past all thought of "if" or "when" - no use resisting:  
abandon thought, and let the dream descend_...

They each spent a good five minutes sorting through music silently, pretending the other did not exist, until Erik finally turned to look at her and could not help but laugh at the interesting shade of pink her cheeks had turned.

Suddenly, Christine knocked into a teetering pile of paper that was hidden in a corner, and it toppled over onto the floor. This pile, however, did not contain merely music. Scattered amongst the staff paper's rigid black lines were blank sheets covered with delicate sketches.

"Erik, is there anything you can't do?" she asked with a laugh as she looked through them.

Many were of sets and costumes used in the Opera's productions, or even designs of his own. A few were of landscapes or trees, and seemed older than the rest. And a few were of people – of the ballet girls, the opera chorus… there was one of Madame Giry's typically austere expression… and a few of her. Her flattered smile widened into a grin when she came across the one he had drawn of their snowball fight.

"These are beautiful," she said softly, stacking all the drawings she'd found and then handing them to him.

Over the next few hours, Christine stumbled across quite a few interesting items tucked away in corners or behind books and cases that Erik himself had forgotten he had. That afternoon, they had moved on to the library, and Christine had just handed down the old chess set he kept tucked away on top of some of the leather-bound tomes. As she was reaching back for an escaped pawn, however, her fingers curled around something else.

It was a black leather mask, one that would have covered all of his face, stamped with a gold swirl design. And it was small; it looked almost… child-sized.

"Where was this from?" she asked, holding it up.

Erik took one look at it and winced visibly.

"Years ago…" he replied softly, studying the carpet, "When I was a child – perhaps twelve – I first began touring with… side shows, and performing as a magician. Often, the act would close with someone ripping my mask away."

Erik heard Christine's soft gasp and looked up at her. She looked horrified at the thought, and he could tell that she understood the pain of those memories… but how to make her understand that the pain was lessening? Slowly, but surely, she was helping him to banish the demons of his past, without even saying a word about it. He grinned at her, glad when he saw her face brighten.

"Well," she said, turning back to the task at hand, "what on earth are we going to do with all these books? There's so many!"

Erik took one look at her overly serious, contemplative expression and burst out laughing.

* * *

"Is there anything you need, Christine?" 

They had finally finished packing away most of his things, and it was after eleven at night. Granted, they had spent only about half the time actually focused on packing… every time he or Christine came across something interesting, they would get diverted for several minutes. Once, Christine had mentioned that if he had kept his things in order, it would be easier to pack them away now – which caused a wad of packing paper to mysteriously fly out of his hand and into the side of her head. Which had its repercussions, of course.

And of course, he'd stolen a kiss.

"Actually, I was hoping we could go up to my dressing room; Meg's told me that no one else has taken it."

Erik nodded, and suddenly Christine disappeared for a moment and then returned with the medium-sized rectangular box she had brought with her into his house that morning and had left in the hallway.

As they began to walk together up the tunnel that led to her old dressing room, Erik turned to her and voiced his curiosity.

"Am I going to find out what's in there, or has Adele's love of conspiring started to rub off?"

Christine laughed.

"I never did return the _Rigoletto _costume… this is my last chance to say something, isn't it? Not only is the dress… stained, but I've left a note in the box as well. You can read it if you like, when we get there."

The trek up to the mirror-door seemed longer than it once had, but perhaps only because it had been so long since they had been there. But at last the mirror's frame came into view, and they stepped through into the dark, dusty room. Christine set the box down on the dressing table and reached up to turn on the light. Erik walked around her and opened the box; there was a folded note settled prominently on top of the costume, parts of which were stained an alarming brownish-red. He turned away from the sight quickly and unfolded the note.

_Monsieur Duval;_

_I would appreciate it if you would cease sending me invitations to rejoin the cast of this opera company. I will _not _be returning, and there is no way you could possibly persuade me to come back. Certain members of the company were involved in an act of absolutely unprecedented violence a month ago, and my fiancée was nearly killed. I could not possibly think of returning to a place where I cannot trust much of the company I would be working with. _

_I must also apologize that it has taken me this long to return the _Rigoletto _costume, and that I was unable to wash out the bloodstains._

_Mlle. Christine Daaé_

Erik snickered softly as he refolded the note and packed it back into the box.

"I'd like to be around to see their reaction to that!" he said with a laugh. "But… are you sure that, after all this time, you want to throw your lot in with the Phantom's?"

"I did that the day you were attacked. I don't care what anyone here thinks of me anymore; it doesn't matter at all. And besides… I _want_ to be associated with you. I want people to see us together and say 'look, there is Monsieur Renoir and his wife.' I see no reason to be ashamed of that."

Erik reached out and gently touched her cheek, not quite knowing whether he wanted to smile or cry at that.

"There are… some things I will miss about this place… it's been a home to me for so long; this dressing room… the stage… Erik, can we go stand on the stage, just one last time?" she asked quickly, then backed down. "I'm sorry… that's probably not the best idea… what if we were seen…?"

"It may have been a few months, Christine, but I can still be the Opera Ghost when I want to. No one will see us."

He led her down a series of tiny passageways and shadowy corridors until they reached the darkened wings. The stage itself was completely dark, save for the ghost light left on the very edge of the black wooden surface. Almost tentatively, Christine walked out onto the familiar boards and looked out at the dark shadowy recesses of the boxes and theatre seats, up at the maze of ropes and pulleys in the catwalks above her, took in the familiar surroundings as though they were completely alien to her, and with a pang she realized that she no longer belonged there at all. She did not regret leaving the Opera at all, she was more than happy with her choice… but still, she would miss the beautiful stage, the applause, her few friends here… she was relinquishing her old life entirely.

Erik did not share any regrets; the place held nothing for him any longer, but as he waited for her at the edge of the stage, he heard her begin to sing softly to herself. Her tune was wordless, but one he recognized quickly: "_Adieu, notre petite table_"… He had known it would be _much_ harder for her to pack up and leave than it was for him, and she had seemed to know as well, but he still felt guilty… She would miss performing… perhaps he could give her one last performance, even if the auditorium was deserted…

"_We are the lucky ones_

_We shine like a thousand suns_

_When all of the color runs together_…" he began softly.

Christine turned to see him walking towards her, singing the duet he had written for them and had given to her for Christmas… she smiled, and added the next verse.

"_I'll keep you company_

_In one glorious harmony_

_Waltzing with destiny forever_…"

Erik reached her and took her hand, adding his voice to hers.

"_Dance me into the night_

_Underneath the moon shining so bright_

_Turning me into the light_…"

He suddenly slipped his arm around her waist, still holding her hand tightly in his, and they fell into a waltz of their own, accompanied by a music that only they could hear. She settled her hand on his shoulder, realized that he was holding her far closer than was exactly proper, so she was pressed right up against his chest… realized it did not matter at all. After a few moments, she spun away from him, suddenly dizzy, and closed her eyes as she heard him come up behind her. 

"_Let the dark waltz begin_…"

She turned and finished the phrase;

"_Oh, let me wheel, let me spin_…"

And then he was close to her once again, and the song reached its crescendo…

"_Let it take me again_…

_Turning me into the light_…"

* * *

Meg yawned widely, trudging back to the ballet dormitories. She and her mother would spend the night there, as they had been practicing until God-knew-when. Certainly later than necessary… 

Suddenly, she saw a flicker of movement in the corridor ahead of her, and quietly she crept forward to see who it was. She was immensely surprised to see Christine and Erik moving silently through the shadows, heading towards the stage. What in the world were they doing back there?

"Whatcha looking at, Meg?" one of the other ballet girls whispered in her ear, making her jump.

"Noth-" she began, but she stopped mid-word. They would be leaving soon; what could it hurt? And besides, perhaps now was her chance to do something for him…

As she hesitated, a small crowd of ballet girls wanting to go to bed had gathered around her, and she looked up at them sternly, reminding them so much of her mother that they dared not disobey her.

"I want to show you something. But you mustn't make a sound, d'you hear me? Not one peep, and you can't tell anyone about it for a little while. Understand?"

The girls all nodded, and Meg told them to follow her to the front of the auditorium.

Quietly, she pushed open the large door leading into the grand theatre, and there, sure enough, were Erik and Christine, up on the stage, illuminated only by the ghost light, but it was enough to highlight Erik's mask.

"Isn't that the Phan-" one of the girls began in an urgent whisper, but a glare from Meg silenced her.

They all watched in awe as they began to sing, utterly captivated by the perfect blend of their voices. At that distance, and in the dim light, they couldn't clearly make out their faces, but they didn't need to. Each girl shivered as the song ended, and when they watched him simply hold her close for what seemed forever, they knew they must have overlooked something in all the rumors they'd heard about the Phantom himself, and in those connecting Christine to him…

At last, they turned and vanished into the darkness of the wings once more, and for once the girls didn't burst out into excited chatter immediately. Meg was impressed, but then, she had been touched by their song as well.

"See? There's nothing wrong with him at all. He's an ordinary man," she whispered, turning to the other girls. "He's actually very nice."

That was when the dam broke. The other ballet rats bombarded her with questions about him, and she shushed them quickly.

"Do you want _maman_ to hear us? And remember – no talking about this for a while."

They all groaned, but they listened to her. Meg grinned – maybe this bunch, at least, would believe in Erik's innocence in time.

* * *

A/N: The song was "Dark Waltz" by Hayley Westenra. When I first heard it, I said to myself, "self! You have GOT to put this song in!" It wasn't long before I'd worked out some harmonies for it! And so it had to go in... 

Ghost light: a light left on a stage after the actors and crew all leave and go home. Supposedly, it is to keep the ghosts of the theatre away. Didn't work too well at the Palais Garnier before, did it?

Last chapter up next...

Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think! --Kyrie

P.S.: Right after posting this chapter, I noticed that the alerts were down _once again_. I will probably wait to post the last chapter until the bot is up and running again. Sorry about that...


	42. Finale

A/N: Well... here 'tis. The end. Hopefully, a _good _end, although it has been beta-approved and pronounces minimally cliched (snicker).

Thanks so much to phantomlvr, Nyasia A. Maire, mika, A Random Phangirl, OceansAway, ladyAlyafaelyn, Lucia Sasaki, laal ratty, The Phangirl, ThankYouForTheMusic, Timorth, superphan, pony210, -Green-Clown, and flamethrowerqueen for their reviews! A huuuuuuge thank-you to anyone who's reviewed this, you have all made so many days much better. (All you lurkers, here's your last chance to review!)

And so, without further ado, the final chapter of "Love the Stars." I reeeeeeeeeeeally hope it's up to snuff!

* * *

Chapter 42: Finale

_15__th__ March 1882_

"What difference does it make at this point?" Erik asked Adele as she started shepherding Christine out the door of her flat.

"Oh, for goodness' sake, you can spend one night without her, can't you?" Adele shot back, but then she smiled at him.

"Most of my things for tomorrow are at the Giry's," Christine put in calmly. "And come tomorrow afternoon, you won't be able to get rid of me."

Erik grinned and gave in. He smiled at her as Adele shunted her out the door, and she looked back and returned it, suddenly looking a little shy, and watched them as they slipped down the dark, quiet hallway before closing the door behind them.

It was awkward being in Christine's flat without her. For a long time he simply looked around at the boxes scattered across the front room, almost completely unable to believe that tomorrow was his wedding day…

He suddenly dove for the box in the corner that contained all of his things, pulled out a wad of manuscript paper, and began scribbling frantically. He'd have a surprise for Christine by tomorrow…

* * *

Meg jumped onto her bed, landing in front of her best friend. The mattress bounced up and down, but Christine only looked up from her hands in her lap and gave Meg a tentative smile.

"Are you nervous?" Meg asked, the silly grin she wore quickly for a look of concern.

"I… I don't know how to describe it… I'm both terrified and the happiest I've ever been in my life. Does that make sense?"

"Well, it's a good thing you're marrying him!" Meg said with a laugh, giving Christine's shoulder a little shove before continuing teasingly. "You're so completely in love with him it's almost too much!"

That got Christine to laugh, but Meg was suddenly more serious again.

"I'm so happy for you, Christine. I'll miss you, but it's not as though I'll never see you again. And you're both so happy together…"

"Oh, Meg…" Christine said softly, then wrapped her best friend in a huge hug.

They then began talking and joking, laughing as though they were still just ballet rats in the back of the line, as though nothing had ever changed and they had never grown up.

The illusion did not last long, however, and when it fell away entirely at last, it was not an entirely unpleasant thing.

Christine yawned widely; it was very late, and even though it was impossible to fall asleep or be bored while Meg was talking, she was tired.

"I suppose we ought to get some sleep," Meg said resignedly, then looked at her friend with a wicked grin. "Especially since something tells me you'll be up _very _late tomorrow night!"

"_Meg!_" Christine squeaked, her face turning an interesting shade of crimson.

Meg burst into a fit of giggles. Reaching behind her, Christine grabbed Meg's pillow and gave her friend a good clout about the head with it. Meg threw up her arms as Christine raised the pillow and aimed again.

"All right, all right!"

"You deserved that," Christine choked, still blushing furiously.

"You're only hitting me because you _know_ it's true and you can't _wait_…"

Down came the pillow once more.

* * *

_16__th__ March 1882_

Erik cursed quietly under his breath, bobbing his foot up and down as the hansom lurched slowly along. He was going to be late if the driver didn't pick up the pace…!

Still, he couldn't quite grasp the situation, couldn't believe where he was going, what was about to happen. This was too good to be true; it had to be some sort of wild dream… but suddenly he was thrown forward as the carriage jerked to a stop. That wouldn't have happened in a dream… did he really dare hope that it was all real?

He over-tipped the driver and stepped out of the hansom, his heart in his throat by the time he'd shut the door and turned towards the chapel. _But then, if this is all a dream, nothing bad can possibly happen, right? _he thought, and then he walked through the small wooden door in front of him.

And nearly ran into Carlos. The dancer just grinned at him, however.

"Glad you could make it," he joked, and Erik laughed.

"I expect you'll be wondering where Christine is?" Carlos continued.

Erik looked surprised that the boy had guessed his thoughts so easily…

"Ah… well, Adele has explicitly told me that I'm not allowed…"

"But who ever listens to Madame Giry whenever there's the slightest chance of getting away with it?" Carlos cut in with a laugh. "There's a little dressing-room sort of thing just down that corridor to the left… she's in there. And I expect Madame will have chased Meg out by now… I'll go and join them, cause a bit of a diversion if you'd like."

"I just wanted to see her!" Erik said, still laughing. "But thank you. I'd appreciate that."

Carlos grinned again and trotted off, leaving Erik to find Christine.

It didn't take long. The door to the room Carlos had directed him to was ajar, but mostly closed, so he knocked before stepping inside.

Anything he had been about to say left his head the moment he saw her. She was standing in front of a long, oval mirror and turned when she had heard him knock. Her dark curls were loose and tumbled over her bare shoulders; the bodice of the full-skirted white dress conformed perfectly to her figure and was embroidered with lace… she looked beautiful, perfect.

Christine was equally speechless. She was so used to seeing him in his black dress clothes that the grey suit she had so carefully altered surprised her. In fact, the sight of him took her breath away…

Suddenly they both spoke at exactly the same time.

"Erik, you look wonderful…"

"You have never looked lovelier, _mon ange_…"

Christine laughed, and Erik stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. He picked up the crown of silk orange blossoms sitting on a wooden table at the edge of the room and gently placed it on her head, letting his hands brush through her hair before settling on her shoulders.

"Madame won't be happy if she knows you've seen me. It is supposed to be bad luck…"

"Christine, you are the first piece of good luck I have ever had. Superstitions won't have any bearing on that, and I'll tell Adele that myself if she _does _reprimand me. I _really _don't see how it matters, separating us at this point…"

"Don't blame her, Erik, she's been unbelievably helpful. I think she just wants to salvage as much propriety out of the situation as she can." Suddenly feeling awkward, Christine cleared her throat before continuing. "I… hope you weren't bored last night, stuck in my house with nothing but boxes to keep you company."

"No… I was… composing."

"Oh, good, I was hoping you wouldn't accidentally set fire to something…"

Erik laughed, smiling at her. Christine reached up and smoothed out the lapels on his suit, unable to look at him for a moment, but he cupped her chin in his hand and raised her face to his, softly singing the melody he had written just the night before.

"_I never knew I could feel like this_

_As though I'd never seen the sky before_

_I want to vanish inside your kiss_

_Every day I love you more and more_

_Listen to my heart – can you hear it sing?_

_You have given me everything_

_Seasons may change; winter to spring_…

_But I'll love you until the end of time_…"

Christine could only smile at him, wondering why there were tears in her eyes when she was so completely overjoyed…

There was another knock at the door then, and they both looked up, expecting Adele to come in, but instead it was Meg, and she only beamed at them.

"It's time to get started…"

* * *

The ceremony was almost a blur, almost a dreamlike whirlwind. Neither Erik nor Christine could quite believe that that moment had finally come. Before she knew it, Erik had turned to her and taken her hand, his voice soft and heavily laced with emotion as he spoke.

"You are the light in my darkness, my hope, my savior from the demons of my past. On this day I take you as my wife, and I promise to love you always, as long as we both shall live."

Christine gave the response, almost unable to speak.

"You are my angel, my teacher, my guardian, and my friend. On this day I take you as my husband, and I promise to love you always, as long as we both shall live."

Although Carlos did his best to hide it, there was not a single dry eye among the present company when they kissed.

When Christine opened her eyes again, she saw that Erik was giving her a radiant smile.

"Please don't let me ever wake up," he whispered, and she smiled ecstatically, nestling her head into his shoulder as he held her.

"This isn't a dream, Erik," she replied softly.

After a moment she looked over at their friends, all of them beaming at them, and then turned back to her husband. Erik kept his arm around her waist, still grinning uncontrollably.

A little while later, they walked out of the church and into the bright, early spring sunshine, together.

* * *

_Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place  
Suddenly it moves with such a perfect grace  
Suddenly my life doesn't seem such a waste  
It all revolves around you  
And there's no mountain too high  
No river too wide  
Sing out this song and I'll be there by your side  
Storm clouds may gather  
And stars may collide  
But I'll love you until the end of time_

_Come what may  
Come what may  
I will love you until my dying day_

* * *

_--Fin--_

* * *

A/N: The song is "Come What May" from Moulin Rouge.

And that's all she wrote! (of the story, that is, I can still blither on here!)

I'm so glad that a lot of you have really enjoyed this story so much - thanks so much for reading it! I do have a new phic in progress, called "Second Chances," if you'd like to stroll over and take a look.

As always, thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think!

_Au revoir, mes amis! _--Kyrie


End file.
